Thread of Fear

by Jeff Shelby

  “You told him that day?” I asked. “That his son was dead?”

  Anchor nodded.

  “Then why did he hire me?” I asked, frowning. “If he already knew, why did he hire me to look for his son?”

  “He had to sell it,” Anchor told me. “At least that's what I'd assume. He had to make it look like he didn't know.”

  “So he didn't even tell his wife?”

  Anchor shook his head. “The agreement was to keep it a secret. To not tell anyone.”

  My mind was reeling. I couldn't believe that Dennison had been able to keep it a secret for so long. I thought about the secrets I'd kept from Lauren – about Farvar and Bazer and my level of involvement in what had happened to each of them. I'd never intended to lock those things away, to never tell her, but there had been other things to focus on: having Elizabeth back, rebuilding the tenuous foundation of our relationship, and the unexpected pregnancy. I'd always told myself I'd tell her. Some day. And then I thought of Anchor and the assignment he'd given me. I'd tried to tell Lauren but she'd stopped me. She didn't want to hear it spelled out, but there was no question: she knew.

  But the way that Kathleen talked about Aaron and his disappearance, she clearly didn't have a clue what had happened. Her husband had kept his word. I couldn't believe he'd done it. Even more unbelievable for me, however, was the fact that he'd continued working for the man who killed his son. Fear was the only reason I could think of that Dennison would continue in his job. He probably knew that the offer to leave was only a bluff. I didn't believe for a moment that Anchor would've let him walk after telling him the truth about Aaron and Dennison probably realized that, too.

  So it made no sense then that he'd steal a second time and take off running. Because he, more than anyone, understood the consequences.

  “He did, however, break the agreement,” Anchor said.

  I cocked my head. “What?”

  “He broke the agreement,” he repeated. “He told someone.”

  “Who?”

  Anchor uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “Carina Armstrong.”

  I frowned at him. “How do you know that?”

  “Because she contacted me and told me so,” Anchor replied.

  “When?”

  “The day after he went missing,” Anchor said.

  “She just up and called you and told you she knew about Aaron?”

  He shook his head. “No, not exactly. She attempted to disguise her identity over the phone. She told me that she knew things about Mr. Dennison and had access to information he wasn't supposed to share. She was seeking money to keep quiet. I told her I needed proof that she had access to this supposed information. She said she knew about the son.” He paused. “When I asked who she was, she told me she wouldn't reveal that. She asked for half a million dollars or she was going to tell the whole world.” His mouth twitched. “Thirty minutes later, she was rather alarmed to be sitting in a room with me.”

  “You found her and brought her in.” It wasn't a question.

  Anchor nodded. “Correct. As you can imagine, she was frightened and realized she'd made an error in attempting to extort me. At that point, I thought she might help lead us to Mr. Dennison, so after a stern warning, we let her go.”

  “But you didn't kill her?”

  “No, we did not.” His tone was firm.

  “You would've, though,” I said. “Once I found Dennison. She was a loose end. Delzano just did the work for you.”

  Anchor shrugged. “It's not something I have to consider now.”

  He didn't, but I didn't for a moment believe that he hadn't already written her death sentence prior to discovering she'd already been taken out. All that meant for him was that he had one less person to worry about.

  I remembered something about my conversation with Carina. “She was afraid of you,” I said slowly, her words and her expression coming back to me. “And she didn't think you knew about her relationship with Dennison. Why would she have tried to extort you, especially if she knew what you were capable of?”

  “People do stupid things,” Anchor replied. “When she and I spoke, I let her do the talking.”

  “Until you threatened her.”

  “There were no threats,” he said, smiling. “Merely warnings. I didn't press hard with her. My intention wasn't to scare her away because I'd hoped she'd lead us to Mr. Dennison. So my questioning of her was... thinner than it normally would have been. I didn't need to know the sordid details of her past relationship with Mr. Dennison. I wanted to know where to find him. And she didn't have the information I needed.”

  “That explains why you gave me her name with no context,” I said. “So I could locate her and ask a few more questions. You would get the information, but she wouldn't know I was working for you. You knew exactly who she was to Dennison when you gave me her name.”

  “Of course.”

  “So you knew who she was all along. Even when I asked about her working for you. Again, you lied to me.”

  “I did, yes,” he agreed readily. “I felt that sharing any of that with you might prevent you from looking at her with a clear head. I didn't want to color your investigation in any way. No preconceived notions. I also thought that if you went to her with any information that I provided, that might cause her to run. I apologize.”

  He wasn't sorry. There was no apologetic tone to his words. He was saying it to say it, but we both knew it didn't mean anything. Carina Armstrong's death sentence had been signed off on the minute she'd contacted Anchor; Delzano had just beaten him to it. I clenched my jaw. It wasn't a good feeling, knowing I'd been the one to lead Delzano and his thugs to her.

  The server returned to our table and asked if we were finished. Anchor motioned to his plate, indicating she should take it. She glanced at my plate and then back at me, a concerned look on her face. Anchor's plate was nearly clean, but I hadn't touched my food.

  “I wasn't hungry,” I said. I didn't sound convincing, even to my own ears. “It's alright.”

  “Would you like it to go?” she asked. Her hair was cut short and it reminded me of Carina.

  I looked away from her. “No, I'm fine.”

  She hesitated, then cleared the plates and took them away.

  “So, now you know,” Anchor said. His hands were back on the table, folded in front of him, as if we were discussing a simple business matter, not the kidnapping and murder of a child, the extortion of a man, and the collateral damage of Carina Armstrong.

  “Yeah. Now I know.”

  “Is this going to be an issue?” he asked. His eyes bored into me. “Between us?”

  I wanted to say yes. I wanted it to be an issue because what he'd done sickened me. He'd used a kid as a punishing tool and the worst possible outcome had come from it. I wanted to leap over the table and choke the life out of him, because I'd been in Dennison's shoes. I'd lost a kid, imagined a thousand worst possible outcomes. But through it all, through the darkest, bleakest of days, I'd had hope. Hope that I would find her, hope that we would be reunited, hope that our lives could somehow return to normal. Patrick Dennison hadn't had that luxury – he knew almost immediately that his son was dead – but he'd lived his life trying to convince his wife that hope still remained. And he hadn't severed ties with the man responsible. He'd continued to work for him, moved what was his left of his family to a new city. Maybe it was for the money but I was doubtful. It was fear that drove him to do it. I understood that; after all, fear was what was propelling me forward in my search for the missing man.

  “Mr. Tyler?” Anchor's voice held a note of impatience.

  Fear. It was a powerful motivator. But it didn't explain why he'd stolen from Anchor again, why he'd put his life on the line when he knew what his boss was capable of. That was a piece of the puzzle I still didn't know. And, despite who was in charge, forcing my hand, it was something that ate at me.

  “I'll find Dennison for you,” I said shortly.

  “And yo
u'll terminate him,” Anchor reminded me. “I don't want to see him again.”

  “I understand our agreement.” I forced the words out of my mouth.

  “And I think it goes without saying that this conversation is to remain between the two of us.”

  “How do you know Dennison hasn't told anyone else?” I asked. “Besides the girl?”

  Anchor considered that. “I don't.”

  “His wife needs closure,” I said. “She needs to know that her son isn't alive.”

  “That's not something I can provide, I'm afraid.” He paused and looked at me, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “And neither can you.”

  “She needs to know.”

  “Her needs aren't your priority right now,” Anchor said, his voice hardening. “Finding Mr. Dennison is the only thing you need to be focused on. And straying from that priority would be a disastrous mistake for you, Mr. Tyler.” He paused. “Are we clear on that?”

  I stood and tossed my napkin on the table. “Crystal.”

  THIRTY FOUR

  I left the restaurant knowing I was going to Kathleen Dennison's home.

  I didn't know what I was going to tell her, but I knew I needed to tell her something. There was no way I could keep the information that her son was dead from her. For all of the years I'd spent looking for Elizabeth, there'd been a point when I'd actually wished that someone could just tell me she was dead, only so that I could stop looking and stop hoping. That day had never come for me because I'd been one of the lucky ones; my daughter had been found. But for families who were still wondering, who were walking around with a gaping hole in their hearts and in their lives, they deserved to know, no matter how painful the news would be. They deserved to be able to finally shut that door and to grieve the loss of their child and the loss of hope. Kathleen Dennison deserved this.

  I just had to figure out what to tell her.

  I cut the engine in her driveway and checked the rearview mirror. I'd watched it the entire way to her home, taking a different route than I had before, watching for an extra car or something out of the ordinary in case Anchor had stuck someone on my tail. I hadn't seen anything. I knew that Anchor and his people were good enough to have followed me without my knowing, but I was fairly certain I'd been thorough enough in my vigilance and that I was arriving there alone.

  I rang the doorbell and Kathleen answered almost immediately, surprised to see me.

  “Mr. Tyler,” she said.

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't call. Again.” I shoved my hands into my pockets. “But I'd really like to talk with you for a few minutes. It's important.”

  She looked at me for a moment, waiting for me to say more. When I didn't, she pulled the door open wider and motioned for me to come in. She'd changed from her workout clothes I'd seen her in earlier in the day to a pair of jeans and a lightweight green sweater. Her hair was simply styled, brushed away from her face and she wore no make-up. She looked tired.

  “I was having a quiet night in,” she said, as if she meant to explain her appearance.

  “I'm sorry I didn't call,” I said again. “But I felt like I should just come over.”

  She motioned to the sofas in the living room. “I thought we were done,” she said, then corrected herself. “I mean, you. I thought you were done.”

  I didn't sit down. “I am. I'm off your husband's case. But some new information came to light. It may not make much sense and I can't provide a lot of context or background information. I know that sounds odd, but I'm not going to have the answers to your questions.”

  Her eyebrows pinched together. “I'm not sure I'm following.”

  I took a deep breath. “It's about Aaron.”

  Her eyes widened. “Aaron?” she asked faintly. Her hands were in her lap and she threaded her fingers.

  “I can tell you with absolute certainty that Aaron is dead.”

  She stared at me for a long time, her mouth slightly open, almost like she was frozen in time. I stood there, frozen along with her. I watched emotions flicker across her face. Shock. Confusion. Disbelief.

  “How can you possibly know that?” she asked.

  “Because I do,” I said. “I can't provide you with the details, but I can assure you that Aaron is dead. I'm sorry.”

  “I don't believe you,” she said. Disbelief was quickly giving way to anger. “There's no way you could know that.”

  “You don't have to believe me. I'm just telling you what I know.”

  “Where is he then?” she asked. “Tell me where he is so I can see for myself.”

  “I don't know where he is.” It was the truth. It was one of the only pieces Anchor had chosen not to share with me. And I wasn't sure I wanted to know. “I'm sorry.”

  “Then how can you possibly know that he's gone?” she asked, her voice climbing higher. “How can you possibly know that?”

  “I just do,” I said. “I know that's not a great answer, but—”

  “Not a great answer?” she said. She leapt off the couch as if the cushions were crawling with scorpions. “You come here and tell me that my son is dead – for certain – but you can't tell me where he is or how you know? And then tell me that's not a great answer? That's an understatement, Mr. Tyler. A ridiculous understatement.”

  “I know,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

  She stood in front of me, so close I could reach out and touch her if I'd wanted, if she'd shown any signs of needing comfort. Her chest heaved and her eyes were wild with fury and grief. I'd told people in the past that their children were no longer alive. Not many, thankfully, but there had been a few. I'd had to when I'd learned that they were gone. The kids who had committed suicide, the kids who'd run away and gotten into trouble. But I'd never had to do it without concrete proof. They would get angry, then sad, and then, once they'd had time to process, I'd tell them what I knew, giving them the facts as dispassionately as I could. People were conditioned to deal with facts.

  But I had no facts to give Kathleen Dennison.

  “This has to involve Patrick somehow.” Her voice wavered but her eyes never left mine. “Correct?”

  I didn't break free from her gaze. “Yes and no.”

  She laughed bitterly. “Another not so great answer.”

  “It came up in the investigation,” I tried to explain. “That's all I can say.”

  She shook her head, disgusted, her jaw set. Her gaze shifted to the carpet. “Did he do it? Did Patrick do it?”

  “No. Absolutely not,” I said firmly.

  She lifted her eyes, wet with unshed tears. “Do you know who did?”

  I thought for a moment. Anchor had ordered the kidnapping, but, from what he'd told me, he'd never even been in the room with the boy. His associates, as he liked to say, had done the dirty work.

  “Not really, no,” I answered.

  “I don't believe you.”

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “That's all I can offer you.”

  She kept staring at me, her arms folded tightly against her chest and I stood there, a welcome target for her hatred and anguish. I deserved it.

  “You told me he was involved with some bad people,” she said. Her voice dropped to a whisper, almost as if she was afraid someone might overhear. “It has to do with them, doesn't it?”

  I didn't say anything.

  “Did he know?” she asked, her voice rising a notch. “Did Patrick know Aaron was dead?”

  I didn't say anything.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” she whispered.

  Her body started to shake and tears streamed from her eyes. She covered her face with her hands, ragged breaths piercing the silent room as she sobbed. She shook her head back and forth, crying harder.

  I stood there, silent, unmoving.

  After a few minutes, the crying stopped and her body went still. She wiped at her eyes, now red. Mascara smeared the corners and I realized that I'd been wrong, she did have a little make-up on Her skin was mottled, damp. She pursed her li
ps several times and then with great effort, brushed past me and headed toward the front door.

  “I don't care if Patrick's dead or hiding. I don't want him back and I don't want to see him.” She wiped at her eyes. “Please leave.”

  I nodded.

  “And please don't tell me you're sorry again,” she said, her voice tight, strained.

  I nodded again and walked out of the living room, toward the front door. My body ached, stiff from the tension.

  I pulled open the front door and stepped outside.

  “Mr. Tyler.”

  I turned around.

  Her arms were still wrapped around her body. Her shoulders sagged and she looked smaller. The wrinkles around her eyes, even covered in the smeared mascara, seemed deeper, longer.

  “You're sure Aaron's dead?” she asked in a whisper.

  I didn't want to be, but I knew the truth. “I am.”

  She stared at me for a moment, but it was like her eyes were looking through me, like I wasn't there. I could see the tears forming in her eyes again. I thought she was going to lash out at me again, call me a liar, tell me that I was full of shit. I would've stood there and taken it because I felt like I deserved it.

  Instead, though, she closed the door between us, leaving me standing outside her home.

  Alone.

  THIRTY FIVE

  The thought of going back to the hotel room was unbearable and as much as I didn't want to admit it, I needed my family.

  I left right from the Dennison home, driving through the desert twenty miles over the speed limit, trying to quiet my mind. I wondered if I'd made a mistake in telling Kathleen about Aaron. I'd broken an agreement with Anchor and I'd devastated a woman who'd been clinging to a thread of hope for years. I wasn't sure any good would come of it. Maybe someday Kathleen would be able to accept that what I'd told her was true, but without facts or physical proof, she might still cling to the belief that he was still alive.

  But I remembered her words about her husband. She'd wanted closure, asked me for it, in the same way that I knew she needed closure about what had happened to her son. I just was no longer sure that what I'd done had helped her. And in doing so, I might've put my own life, and the lives of the people I loved, in jeopardy.