by A Rosendale
“Wow. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
She shrugged. “Titles don’t account for much.”
He scoffed. “You got that right,” he muttered bitterly and flipped to the front of the book to read Travers’s notes on Johnson. His skin crawled at the entire description, but actual chills crept over him at the CIA agent’s foresight. Alma and Cooper are my first concern. Agent Ramsey will be targeted in due time. Johnson must be re-incarcerated. A thick blue line had been drawn through ‘re-incarcerated’ and a tiny scribble above replaced it. Eliminated.
Noting his readings, Alma added, “Later, he says to find Agent Ramsey as soon as possible, preferably before Johnson does. ‘He will be most valuable then’.” She used finger quotes to cite her husband’s written word.
“You’ve read the whole thing?”
She nodded. “Except for the last section.”
Ramsey flipped to it. Personal Notes to Alma.
“This part is for you.” She reached over and skimmed back some pages, then tapped the writing.
Agent Ramsey,
Please, I beg of you, see to the welfare of my family. Alma is strong, unbelievably so, but she will need help. She does not know this maze as you and I do. My son, he will not understand. Please have patience. I know you don’t have children, but he’ll need someone to look to. Watch your back, Ramsey. Johnson will not be far behind. Use your resources. Use my wife’s intellect; don’t dismiss her wit and cunning. Hide them, and yourself, if necessary. Just please protect them. I hope you never need to, but please find the notes in this journal as an offering of intel to the best of my knowledge. Johnson is a cruel and ruthless man. Take nothing for granted. Thank you. As you once told me, I can’t thank you enough.
D. Travers
The heartfelt words written by a dead man ended Ramsey’s resolve. He got up abruptly and poured a straight glass of whiskey.
Before he could say anything to Alma, her son appeared, the Golden Retriever at his side.
“Well?” the boy demanded.
Alma squeezed her eyes shut, ran a hand over her face, and turned to face him.
“You said you’d have a plan tonight,” he demanded.
“We’re still talking,” Ramsey defended weakly.
“Will you at least tell me what you’re talking about?” Something in the child’s resolve broke and he took a step closer. “I deserve to know.” When his mother still couldn’t foster a response, he took another step. “I want to know why Dad is dead!” he shouted suddenly. “You won’t tell me anything! Hell, you hardly talk to me!”
“Watch your language,” Alma muttered halfheartedly.
“No! Not unless you tell me what happened! I deserve to know!” he repeated at ever-higher decibels.
Ramsey cradled his whiskey and leaned against the counter. ‘Have patience,’ Travers’s note had begged. His observation of this exchange already played on that order.
“Coop,” Alma started.
“Don’t call me that!” he screamed. “Dad called me that! Not you!”
“Coop,” she repeated with a darker tone and Ramsey caught a sense of the stubborn strength Travers had mentioned. She took a deep breath and gathered the wherewithal to address his demands. “Dad wasn’t just a computer programmer.”
“But he worked for NOAA,” he insisted.
“Yes, for the past few years. But before that, he worked for the CIA.”
“CIA? Central Intelligence Association?”
“Agency,” Ramsey corrected quietly.
“He was a spy, for lack of a better term,” Alma added.
Cooper’s eyes widened.
“And he tangled with some pretty bad people.”
“Dad was a…a spy?” he repeated, reeling.
“One of the men he reported on really hated him. Agent Ramsey arrested him.”
“His name was Eric Johnson,” Ramsey clarified for the boy.
“And he got out of jail a couple weeks ago.”
“He killed Dad?”
“He sent someone to kill your dad, and me.”
“And me.” Ramsey shot the kid a devilish grin to dispel the anxiety, but Cooper wasn’t ready for adult humor yet.
“And me?” he asked anxiously.
Alma shook her head tiredly. “We don’t think he knows about you.”
“Or Bailey?”
She allowed a brief grin. “Or Bailey. And Wyatt and I, our job is to keep it that way.”
“So Dad’s…”
She could see denial crumbling into acceptance and nodded stiffly. Her son sniffled and bit his lip, then stared at his mother, who was doing the same. He crossed the remaining distance between them and placed his hands on her shoulders.
In a voice choked with pain, he whispered, “Dad said it’s okay to cry when something hurts.”
Alma stared into his coral eyes and blinked back tears before gathering him in her arms and onto her lap.
Ramsey swallowed his own emotions and silently slid open the back door. He stepped outside and sucked in a refreshing pine-heavy breath. He felt something bump against his leg and found the yellow dog at his side. An unbidden grin crossed his lips and he ruffled the dog’s ears.
Chapter 60
An arduous breath accompanied by a sharp, agonizing pain brought him out of a muddled stupor. All of a sudden, his entire body was raked by back-arching agony. The sensation made him simultaneously faint and nauseous. He opened his eyes to assess the reason for the excruciating state, but all he saw was black. Assuming something was covering his eyes, he tried to swipe it away. His hands felt like lead and wouldn’t respond. Then he became aware of pressure around his wrists. The conviction that he was being restrained made panic stab through the pain and fog. He pulled at the cotton cuffs and his breathing became fast and frantic, which caused his side to throb.
“Calm yourself, Travers.”
The voice in the dark made Dirk flinch. It was muffled, either by fabric or injury, he couldn’t tell, which only caused him to panic further.
“Stop!” the voice ordered irritably. “You’ll only hurt yourself more. Hell, you’ve almost bled to death already.”
“Where?” he gasped. His voice was faded and gravelly. “What…” A cough stole words and sent a hot stake through his chest.
“Damn it, Travers!” the voice grated angrily. “I’m spending a damned fortune keeping you alive. Maybe revenge isn’t…”
The voice faded with his consciousness.
* * *
Everything hurt. His entire body throbbed with dull pain, but his ribs felt like lightening bolts pierced him with every breath. His head felt like an axe split his skull and, although he couldn’t see, flashes of white-hot pain crossed his vision. Somewhere in his periphery, a bell rang.
He was still reeling from the bright sound when something bumped his feet.
“Morning, bright eyes,” Johnson’s detestable voice greeted.
Dirk groaned at the throb in his ears. A stern hand was placed on his bicep.
“Tell me, Travers, where’s that beautiful wife of yours?”
“Go to hell,” Dirk murmured. A sudden prod in the side produced a strangled cry he didn’t recognize as his own.
“You tell me where your wife is and I’ll ease your suffering.”
He coughed painfully in an attempt to scoff. “Sorry if I don’t believe you.”
Pain came from the opposite side of his ribs and he suddenly remembered a deafening gunshot that brought him to his knees.
“Where is she?” Johnson demanded.
Dirk panted at the blinding pain.
He waited until his victim regained his breath. “Well?”
“I would rather die,” Dirk breathed.
“That is not an option,” Johnson promised ominously. He placed a hand over the IV line in Dirk’s arm and squeezed.
The torture produced a back-arching cry. When Johnson spoke again, his voice was right next to Dirk’s ear.
“Pain is an option, Travers. Death is not.”
“Why can’t I see?” he demanded. He regretted of the tone of fear in his voice.
Johnson laughed heartily. He debated his options. He could let his victim suffer, thinking he was blind forevermore, or he could cause intense agony all at once. He made his choice.
Dirk squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden bright light and his head felt like it was split in two. The left side of his scalp felt raw and a trickle of blood ran behind his ear.
“Hmm, what a beautiful set,” Johnson cooed.
Dirk felt a fingerprint of pressure on his right temple, then a sharp pinprick on the left.
“I must tip my shooter in Portland. He seems to have the same fault every time he aims at your head.”
He recalled the neat crease above his right ear; scarring and gray hair had covered the scar. “You son of a-”
Before he could finish, Johnson pressed a thumb into the fresh wound on his left temple. The effort made Dirk recoil as far as he could with his wrists retrained. He saw stars. When his vision cleared, he tested opening his eyes again, squinting. As his pupils adjusted and he opened them further, he noticed his left eye would open no more than a sliver.
“What happened?” he mumbled miserably.
“You don’t remember?” Johnson taunted. He stood back from the bed and crossed his arms.
Dirk shut his eyes and leaned back into the pillow behind his aching head. “I was dead,” he said quietly. He remembered talking to Alma on the phone, sucking in each breath with a painful gurgle; he’d correctly guessed the first gunshot had pierced his right lung. Another gunshot rang out and he’d known that was it, he’d never see his wife and son again.
“Hmm,” Johnson mused. “You should have been, but I couldn’t allow that, could I? We’ve still got business to conduct, Travers. I couldn’t allow you to kick off before I kill your wife. That would be too easy, don’t you think?”
“You’ll never find Alma,” Dirk muttered. The pain was getting the better of him and his energy was fading fast.
Johnson grabbed his elbow and squeezed the IVs again, causing him to writhe and his eyes to shoot open. Johnson’s face hovered inches above him. “Not only will I find her, but I’ll make her wish she were dead. Hell, I’ll make her wish you were dead.” He released his victim and watched as the man collapsed in a dead faint.
Chapter 61
“I’m calling him,” Alma said. She’d put Cooper to bed, dried her eyes, and taken a healthy sip of whiskey.
“What?” Ramsey demanded.
“I’m calling Johnson.”
Without waiting for his approval, she turned on the assassin’s phone.
“This is it,” she asserted as she scrolled through the ‘recent calls’ list. “This is a Boston area code.”
He was surprised when she glanced at him for support. “Might as well,” he muttered. “Just use speaker phone.”
He may as well not have spoken at all as she had already pressed send.
A voice neither of them had heard for years answered. “Where the hell have you been!? I’ve been calling-”
“If you’re looking for Dante Arguello, he’s dead.” Alma’s voice was cold and precise.
“Dr. Decker.” There was a momentary pause while Johnson gathered himself. “It’s a pleasure to hear your voice, dear.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, you self-centered son of a bitch! I killed your little henchman and I intend to end you, too! I’m coming for you, you bastard!”
“Oh, please, do. I have excellent news-”
“I want none of your poisoned words, Johnson! I’ll see you soon!” With that, she slammed the phone on the table and punched the ‘end’ button. Then she jerked the battery out of the device and threw it across the room.
Breathing hard, she finally glanced at Ramsey. He was staring at her wide-eyed.
“I don’t know what Johnson is thinking right now, but I’m freakin’ terrified!” he exclaimed.
The break in tension made her laugh hysterically.
“Well done!” Ramsey congratulated, clinking his glass against hers. He drew the notebook back towards him and took a drink.
It was past midnight when he sat back in his seat to rub tired eyes. “According to this, and I agree, we have three options. One, go underground. Two, wait for Johnson’s henchmen to find us and be prepared when they do. Or three, go after the man himself.”
Alma nodded agreement. The adrenaline rush of her call to Boston had faded and she felt exhausted and depressed.
“I know I’d rather wait out Johnson here. I think you’d rather go on the offensive and head straight to Boston.”
“But Dirk wanted us to hide, to keep Cooper safe.”
He sighed. “So we’re split three ways.”
Alma nodded again and stared at the ounce of whiskey remaining in her cup.
Ramsey shook his head in wonder and tapped the book. “Wow. Travers really thought of everything.”
“He thought of everything except of how to protect me from memories of him. Those are sure to kill me sooner and more effectively than Eric Johnson.” Alma’s voice was heavy with anguish.
Ramsey frowned and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. He couldn’t think of any comforting words. Finally, he said, “They fade eventually,” even though it wasn’t entirely true.
Her eyes creased with pain. “What if I don’t want them to?” she whispered.
Ramsey swallowed a ball of emotion and rubbed her shoulder.
“Let’s sleep on our three options and revisit it in the morning.” He waited for her to nod, then shot the remainder of his drink and went to bed.
Chapter 62
A sharp stab in the side brought Dirk around. He found a strangled gasp escaping his lips and hurried to stifle it against the pain. Before his eyes could adjust to the dim light, a beefy hand wrapped around his throat and Johnson’s shadowed features floated inches above him. It was almost a relief that his left eye wouldn’t open enough to present a full view of the detestable man’s face.
“Where is your damn wife?” Johnson demanded in a rage.
Dirk couldn’t have answered if he’d wanted to due to the grasp on his airway. His back arched in an effort to gain oxygen, thence wrenching injuries in his abdomen.
When Johnson realized his victim was on the verge of fading again, he released his grip. “Where’s that wench of a wife? I’ll draw the very breath from her lungs if it’s the last thing I do!”
Dirk strained at the soft cuffs holding him to the hospital bed. “She’s made of tougher stuff than you, Johnson. She’ll outsmart you at every turn.”
Johnson grabbed his chin. “Not when I make her beg for death.” He forced a cackling laugh. “And once she’s dead, you’ll beg for death.”
“You son-”
Johnson cracked him across the jaw. “Your wife already called me that once tonight. I’ll ask you to hold your tongue.”
“If she doesn’t kill you, I will,” Dirk growled weakly, only to be rewarded with another rap across the face, one that stunned him into oblivion.
* * *
He woke to strange hands probing his side and scooted away with a grimace. A casually dressed, brown haired man used gloved hands to examine the wound on his right side.
“You’re a lucky man,” he muttered.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Dirk replied quietly. “Who are you?”
“Your doctor,” he answered cryptically.
“You work for other politicians, doing their dirty work for them?” His tone was accusatory, but the doctor wasn’t ruffled.
With a shrug, he said, “Something like that.”
“You’re as corrupt as they are.”
The doctor smiled. “Perhaps, but my riverside mansion is not.” He cast a last examining glance at Dirk’s ribs, then snapped off his gloves and stepped back. “Seriously, though, you were on death’s door when I first saw you.”
He ope
ned his mouth to reply, but bit back the words.
The doctor smiled knowingly. “You may wish I’d left you there. But that’s no longer my concern. Be sure to finish the antibiotics you’ll be brought.” He released the bedside cuffs and motioned to a nearby couch situated under a window in a side alcove of the brightly lit room. “Get dressed. These are your quarters.” He frowned sympathetically. “Don’t expect to leave them any time soon.”
As the door shut behind him, Dirk heard the unmistakable click of a keyed lock. Noticing the IVs had been removed from his arm, he massaged the bruised elbow crook, then rubbed his sore wrists. He placed a protective hand over his ribs and sat up. The world swam and he reached a steadying hand behind him on the mattress. When the spell finally receded, he placed bare feet on the carpet and stood, using the bed to stay upright. His knees shook and threatened to collapse at any moment. Unsteady, he staggered to the couch and sat down heavily, panting at even the smallest effort.
It took fifteen minutes and a series of unbalanced, awkward stances to struggle into a T-shirt and jogging pants. Once recovered from the strenuous activity, he crossed to the window.
The second-story view looked out on a beautifully manicured green lawn that stretched all the way to the tree line a quarter mile away. The rest of the Victorian mansion stretched below him. The four-paned window was sealed shut. Late afternoon light formed shadows in the room.
Aggravated and tired, he staggered back to the couch and eased onto the cushions. His head throbbed and he allowed it to lull onto the back of the sofa, eyes closed.
A key jiggled in the lock. He sat up as a black-clad woman entered the room bearing a tray. She set a display of food on the coffee table before him, then rattled a plastic cup of pills.
“Antibiotics,” she explained in a heavy Spanish accent. “Supper.”
“Thanks,” Dirk muttered as he accepted the cup of drugs.
She plucked an empty plastic cup from the tray and stepped into an adjoining bathroom Dirk hadn’t noticed before. She returned with the water and encouraged him to swallow the pills. Questioning the safety of such an action but unable to dispose of them otherwise, he shot back the eight or so pills and drained the water cup.