by Chad Zunker
“I’m not trying to impress you, believe me. Every word is true.”
“Yeah, I believe you.”
“How could the FBI possibly have anything on me, David?” I asked.
“That’s a very good question. I’ll have to do some checking.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“That’s easy. I think you should turn yourself in, with me at your side. Let me protect you. I’m the best, you know that.”
“I can’t do that. Not yet.”
“Sam, listen to me, these guys are hunting you down, trying to put bullets in your head. Even the Feds will shoot you in broad daylight at this point.”
“I’m very well aware of that. I’m just not ready.”
He looked at me for a moment. “Your mother?”
“Yes, David, what would you do? Leave her hanging out there?”
He shrugged. “I can’t say for sure. Not to sound like a jerk, but she did abandon you once before. Are you really willing to stick your neck out there for her?”
“It’s not the same. I have to find her. I have to protect her.”
David sighed. “Noble. But a huge risk.”
“I’ve survived this far.”
“True. And that’s impressive.” David stroked his goatee with his right hand, considered his thoughts. “Natalie is investigating Rick’s contacts?”
I nodded. “And the blonde woman.”
“We need that video,” David concurred. “That’s the deal breaker, whether you’re in custody or not.”
“Do you see any serious harm to my legal case whether I turn myself in now or later?”
“Your legal case? No, not really. I mean, the more you run, the guiltier you look. But I can probably undo all of that in one or two days with the media. Unless, of course, another murder is somehow pinned on you. Any other dead bodies out there I should be worried about, Sam?”
“I don’t think so. But who knows at this point.”
“Well, other than the serious risk on your life every moment you’re not in custody, and this bad initial public perception, your case doesn’t really change a whole lot, as far as I see it. Assuming no new trumped up charges come up while you’re still running loose out there. Especially if we have that video. You’ve got to find it, Sam.”
“I’m working on it.”
TWENTY-TWO
Sunday, 4:07 p.m.
Washington, DC
1 day, 7 hours, 53 minutes to Election Day
I waited for Natalie in the grandiose rotunda on the first floor of the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History, near the massive elephant display. The museum was crowded, as usual, and as we’d planned. It was the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday. Large groups of students of all ages ambled about, marveling at the displays. Excited teachers guiding, instructing, and scolding simultaneously. Hundreds of foreign tourist groups of every tongue moving slowly through the vast and impressive maze of artifacts. Families with unruly preschoolers being watched tightly by security guards, who made sure they would not tip over their precious and priceless works of art and science.
We’d exchanged texts earlier, as our initial plan to meet back at her apartment had changed abruptly. Natalie thought she was being followed. She wasn’t sure, but she’d noticed the same set of eyes on her as she went about her business the past few hours. Coffee shop. Dry cleaners. In and out of the office a few times along the sidewalks. She did not want to go back to her apartment. We needed to play it extra safe.
I had on the knit cap and glasses. My feigned focus was on a bronze plaque in front of me describing the world of elephants, but I wasn’t reading a single word of it. Behind the glasses, I surveyed the scene in the three-story rotunda, looking for signs of Natalie and watching every other figure that came into my sight very closely.
I wondered how long a man could survive under the scrutiny of a massive nationwide manhunt. How much could the nerves take? I’d been running on maximum sensory overload for over thirty-six hours straight, a near constant state of panic and paranoia, always short of breath, always on edge, always fighting the urge to run.
Natalie arrived five minutes late, right when I was about to worry she wouldn’t show.
She found me in the corner. We connected eyes. She gave me a subtle nod, walked right past me into the popular dinosaur section of the museum.
I followed her, ten feet behind.
We walked slowly through the dinosaur displays. Natalie paused, read plaques, examined models, artifacts, did the serious museum thing. Several times, I noticed Natalie glance back. I did the same, just casual glances around while looking at the museum map in my hand, as if I wasn’t sure which way I wanted to go next. I didn’t see anyone I felt was overly suspicious. No one seemed to be watching me intently, either. We did this song and dance for about ten minutes until we found ourselves all the way in the very back corner of the first floor inside the Fossil Café. We sat at a table tucked away, side by side, so we could both watch the entrance to the café.
“We good?” I asked.
She nodded. “I think so. I haven’t seen him.”
“What does he look like?”
“Blonde hair. Tall. He’s wearing a blue blazer and brown slacks. Aviator shades.”
“Fed?”
She shrugged. “Not sure.”
I wasn’t convinced yet. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if a random guy followed you around, Natalie. Looking for an opportunity to strike up a conversation and ask you out. You sure someone’s following you because of me?”
“Let’s just be discreet.”
“Okay. Discreet is my middle name at the moment.”
“What did David say?”
She was all business. “He said I should probably let him walk me straight in to the authorities if I wanted to live through this. Let him take over from there.”
“He’s probably right.”
“You think I should turn myself in?”
She twirled a strand of hair in a finger, considered it. “Well, as a reporter on the hunt for a big story, no, by all means, stay on the run. Let’s go find the truth, I’ll write about it and expose it to the world. As someone who still deeply cares about you and doesn’t want you to get killed, turning yourself in is probably the smartest thing.”
“Deeply?”
“Of course. Don’t be stupid.”
“I do love you, Natalie. I’m sorry I couldn’t say it before.”
She cocked her head, her eyes softening, then hardening. “Don’t you think this situation is complicated enough?”
“Sorry. I think I’ve lost the ability to filter my thoughts the past two days.” I shrugged, gave a curt grin. “I guess I’ve learned the hard way that life is short. Better say what you want to say while you’ve still got the chance.”
“You sound like a fortune cookie.”
“I’m not turning myself in to the FBI until I have the video and my mom. So put that out of your mind.”
She didn’t argue with me. The reporter won out. “Okay, well, I can’t find anything on your mom. There are no security cameras at the facility. No one seems to know anything other than what Cedric already told you. I’ll keep working on it. I’ve also checked on Rick Jackson. I got in touch with his mother in Toronto. She’s brokenhearted, of course. Unfortunately, neither his mother nor his sister know anything about his work or what he was up to this past week. I’ve checked with neighbors, other co-workers. Everyone is shocked. Especially the co-workers, who have to deal with both Rick and Ted’s death at the same time. The only potential thread I’ve found so far is with a second cousin named Jeremy Lynch, who also lives here in the city. Rick’s sister, Janice, said they were close. Jeremy just moved to DC six months ago from California. He got his master’s degree in computer science from Stanford. Get this, Jeremy got recruited out of Stanford to become a computer analyst for the CIA.”
“CIA?”
“Yes. But I haven’t been able to
get in touch with him.”
“Why do you think there’s a potential thread there?”
“Well, I tracked down a new girlfriend of his through social media. They’d been dating for about six weeks. She said that she was really worried about Jeremy. He’s been missing since yesterday. Neither she nor any of their friends had spoken with him in the past twenty-four hours. Jeremy hasn’t been answering texts, Facebook messages, nothing, which is really unlike him. She thought about calling the police but hasn’t yet. She keeps expecting him to pop up somewhere, and she doesn’t want to seem like the psycho stalker girlfriend.”
“You think Jeremy could be the recipient of Rick’s server message?”
She shrugged. “He’s the best candidate we’ve got right now.”
“You have an address for him?”
“Yes. I plan to stop by after this.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“I think you should stay underground.”
“Why? As far as we know, I don’t have a tail at the moment. But you do.”
She frowned. “Okay, fine.”
“What about Jill Becker?”
“Not much yet. I’m digging. From what I can tell, she worked off and on as a fashion consultant in New York City. She had two short marriages, one for two years, and the other for fourteen months. She was fired from her last job at a small fashion publication in Brooklyn. One of the women who worked there told me she had gotten into some heavy drugs. Kind of fell off the deep end after her last divorce, became really undependable. So, they had to let her go even though they really liked her. No one at the magazine was sure where she ended up."
“Probably at the bottom of a lake somewhere in Texas.”
“We still have a lot more work to do there.”
“And my buddy, Elvis?”
She nodded, kept ticking off facts from memory. I knew she had everything scribbled down in detail on her notepad. “Greg Carson served a six-year term in the Marines. Spent time in Iraq and Afghanistan. Recon. Special Forces. The highest level. Got out about eighteen months ago. He was definitely a highly-trained military operative. Trained to kill. You’re very lucky to be alive, Sam.”
“Maybe. I don’t feel so lucky.”
“My military contact says his file has some questionable marks, that Carson had some trouble staying in line. Caused some problems. Bad attitude. Not enough to get discharged, but he was right there at the edge. Not much family. An aunt in West Virginia said Carson had a difficult time after getting out. Came home for three months, but then left again after getting into several bar fights. Seemed to be doing better lately. She said he got recruited to do special private security work, both overseas and in the States. She wasn’t sure by whom. No one has called me back yet with Stable Security in Dallas. But I was able to confirm that Congressman Mitchell’s campaign has contracted work with Stable Security in the past.”
“What about Square Jaw?”
“Nothing yet. But he can’t hide from me forever.”
“I don’t doubt it. You’re pretty impressive.”
“It’s true. I can’t deny it.”
We shared a quick grin. It felt good.
“Let’s go check out Jeremy’s place,” she said, “see if he’s home.”
I was about to get up when Natalie put a hand on my shoulder, stopped me, abruptly leaned in, planted a kiss on my lips. She pulled away, just an inch. I was damn near seeing stars. But it was odd, her eyes were not on me. Her head was turned slightly, eyes toward the front door of the café and hallway back into the museum.
I started to say something but she shushed me.
“Don’t move. I just saw him.”
“The blonde guy?” I whispered.
“Yes, he just walked past the door. Same guy.”
I shifted my view, peered around her toward the door myself.
“Right there!” Natalie said, laying another one on me.
I managed to spot him through the strands of her brown hair. His short blonde hair was combed over neatly. He looked like a banker, or maybe a stockbroker, in his blue blazer and slacks. The man, who appeared to be in his mid-forties, was clearly searching for someone. He wasn’t there casually checking out museum exhibits. He stepped away from the entrance to the café and disappeared.
I can’t lie. I wanted him to walk past again. And again.
“We’ve got to go,” Natalie whispered, grabbing my hand, yanking. “Right now.”
I sighed, carefully slipping out of the café behind her.
TWENTY-THREE
Sunday, 4:38 p.m.
Washington, DC
1 day, 7 hours, 22 minutes to Election Day
Jeremy Lynch lived in a simple one-bedroom apartment in north Georgetown on the second floor of an old gray box of a building near Montrose Park. It was just about twenty minutes before five on Sunday afternoon. People were coming and going from the apartment building, so it was easy to get inside. We hit the old stairwell like we lived there, or at least like we knew exactly where we were going. We found 2C on the second floor at the end of a drab hallway. The walls were a dull gray, the ceiling held cheap florescent lighting.
The plan was for me to hang back, and let Natalie do the early talking, just in case the full-on sight of me freaked Jeremy out. I probably didn’t need to be approaching any of Rick Jackson’s family members right now.
Our plans changed quickly when Natalie found the door to his apartment already cracked open. We could hear some banging and bustling coming from inside. We shared an anxious glance. Someone was home, but something told me it was not Jeremy. Before I could say anything, Natalie knocked on the door twice, pushed it slightly open.
“Hello?” she said. “Jeremy?”
We had a three-inch view inside, enough for me to see that something wasn’t right. I immediately noticed papers spread all over the floor right inside the doorway, a small entry table overturned. Natalie pushed the door even further open, another few inches, and we could see the place was flat-out ransacked, like a tornado had hit it. I could see the cushions of the sofa removed, two wooden shelves pulled down to the carpet, their contents of pictures, mementos, knickknacks spread across the tiny living room floor. Boxes tossed about and torn open.
“Hello?” Natalie said, a little louder.
Sudden noise came from the back hallway. Then a guy wearing a gray jacket, jeans, and a scowl came rushing around the corner. He hurried up to the door, pushed it nearly closed, leaving a six-inch gap, enough space to converse with Natalie. I took a step back, so as to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The guy was clean-shaven with a military style haircut. A small jagged scar above his left eyebrow. I noticed a tattoo poking out of his collar near the back of his neck.
“What do you want?” he demanded, not the least bit friendly.
“Sorry to bother you,” Natalie said. “Is Jeremy home?”
“No.”
“You know where I can find him?”
“I think he’s at work.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Yes.”
The guy was clearly not interested in their conversation and agitated at the sudden interruption. The six-inch part in the door was already slowly closing on us. Then I saw it poking out from inside his opened gray jacket. A gun stuck in a black shoulder holster. My heart started racing. This was not good. I fought the urge to grab Natalie, bolt on the spot.
“Are you his roommate or something?” Natalie asked, pressing forward, putting a palm out toward the door.
“Building management.”
He shut the door in her face without another word. We exchanged a quick look. Then I grabbed Natalie by the hand; we made our way toward the stairwell, stopped, huddled.
“No way that guy was building management,” Natalie insisted.
“No,” I agreed. “That place was destroyed. And he had a gun.”
“What?”
I nodded. “Saw it inside his jacket.”
She bit
her lip, stared off. “He was looking for something, Sam.”
“The same thing as us, I suspect. We should get out of here.”
“No, let’s wait for him,” she countered.
“Wait for what? To get shot at?”
“No, wait to see where he goes. And to follow him.”
I looked at her like she was crazy.
“You want to get to the truth or not?” she asked.
I reluctantly agreed. I was perfectly fine with getting shot at. Well, not exactly fine, but more okay with it than with the thought of Natalie dodging bullets. Still, she was right. We needed to know more about this guy. We took the stairs down, waited in the lobby, near the mailbox corridor, out of view of the stairwell. We did not have to wait long. Our new friend in the gray jacket bounded down the stairwell fifteen minutes later and hit the glass doors to the sidewalk with a burst of speed. We followed, doing our best to stay just far enough back to not lose him. He spun to his right on the sidewalk, where he flagged down a cab from up the street. He slid into the back. The cab eased forward.
We waited a moment, then sprinted up to the same curb, spotted a cab on the opposite side of the street. We had no time to lose. I stepped out into traffic to wave it down and nearly got side-swiped by a speeding van, which blared its horn at me and buzzed me within inches. The taxi did a quick U-turn and we jumped inside. We gave quick instructions to follow the taxi. It was waiting at the red light a block ahead of us. I promised a big tip if our driver stayed close. He seemed fine with these instructions, weaved in and out of traffic, slowly making up space. Fortunately, the other taxi was not in a rush. We caught up quickly.
“He was a Marine,” I said to Natalie.
“How do you know?”
“Tattoo on his neck. Semper Fidelis. Wonder if he’s connected to Elvis?”
She shrugged. “This is DC. Former military everywhere.”
“Maybe so.”
Six minutes later, the other taxi dropped the gray-jacketed man on the corner of 20th and P Street in front of an ornate cream-colored office building. The man bolted out of the taxi and straight inside the glass doors. We tossed some cash over the seat and did the same, trying to keep up. Natalie was clearly up for the chase. I could barely keep up with her. The mention of a hidden gun had only seemed to inspire her. We stepped carefully into the lobby just in time to see the man enter an elevator before the doors shut. We rushed across the lobby and watched the numbers above the elevator door gradually light up as the carriage ascended. Two. Three. Four. Five. It stopped on floor five.