Thriller Box Set One: The Subway-The Debt-Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  Holed up in the backseat of the Taurus, with Rae in the woods beside Dawson’s lifeless body, it was almost too easy.

  Certainly much more painless than either of us would have preferred.

  Like the men before him, we left the body where it lay, pausing just long enough to extract two things of value – his cell phone, and that damned ring he was always twisting on – both meant to provide us a direct line to Meyers Jacoby.

  One we stowed in a box, using an all-night courier to deliver it to the Hyatt right at dawn. The other was now pressed against my cheek, Rae seated beside me in the front seat of Celek’s car.

  Parked in a pay lot not ten blocks from Jacoby’s room, we stared out over Lake Michigan as the first grey stripes of light illuminated the water, white caps moving in slow curls toward us. On the rocks beyond our front bumper a handful of gulls moved about, the world just waking up while we were slowly winding down.

  It took five rings for the line to connect, the sound shrill as I switched it to speakerphone, the noise filling the interior of the car.

  “Hello?”

  The voice undoubtedly belonged to Meyers Jacoby, though gone was any trace of the previous bravado he’d had, replaced by some mixture of things I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  I only knew that I hoped it included the same dread I’d been carrying around for sixteen years.

  “Good morning, Senator. How’d you sleep?”

  The words were sarcastic, earning me an arched eyebrow from Rae, though there was absolutely no mirth in my inflection.

  “Wynn,” Jacoby hissed on the other side, it clear the word was like acid on his tongue.

  “And Sommers,” I said, “but no Dawson or Celek, though you already knew that last part, didn’t you?”

  There was no response on the other end of the line, the low drone of voices just barely audible.

  “Listen, I don’t know if what I hear in the background there is you watching the television, getting all caught up on what our friend Skye has been sharing for the last five hours, or if that’s your crew trying to pinpoint where we are, but let me give you a piece of advice...

  “Don’t. Don’t try to come find us, or Skye. Do not call in the middle of the night to lean on us, do not try and use the remaining days on what I guess will be a very short conclusion to your term to try and finish this.”

  Beside me I could see veins begin to bulge along the back of Rae’s forearms, her blood pressure and adrenaline spiking, her thinking very much in line with mine.

  “We have beat you once, and we will do it again.”

  I let the statement hang, pausing a moment to let him respond, but knowing full well he wouldn’t. That’s just not the kind of man he was. He preferred lopsided matchups with the ending already clear.

  Never did he enter into a fair fight of any sort.

  “And next time, you won’t have the benefits of personal security and an army of goons at your command,” I added. “Think about that when you get home to your wife.”

  I ended the conversation there, pressing a button to cut it off before extending the phone over to Rae. Using the tail of her shirt, she wiped the outside clean before jamming the tip of her knife into the center of it, the hard plastic screen shattering into a spider web pattern of misshapen shards.

  Using the automatic windows, she slid hers down and tossed the phone into the trash can positioned along the edge of the lot before I dropped the gear shift into reverse and nudged us back out of our spot.

  Just one more stop to make before we disappeared.

  Chapter Seventy

  The front façade of Union Station looked exactly as it had just three days ago, though it seemed impossible to believe that a mere three days was all that had passed since my last time through. In the span of seventy-two hours a lot of things that could never be changed had transpired, all three of us now marked individuals, needing to disappear for at least the near future, if not longer.

  Still, it was better than what had befallen Otis Dawson or Bret Celek, what was no doubt happening to Meyers Jacoby just a few blocks away.

  “You sure there’s no place else you want to go?” I asked, my head aimed forward, my gaze lifted to look at Skye in the rearview mirror.

  “Thanks, but no, you guys have done enough for me,” Skye said, meeting my focus for a moment before shifting her eyes to the street outside.

  Just as she had appeared in the first batch of photos Celek had given me, already I could see a furtiveness arising in her that would probably not recede for quite some time.

  Grunting once, I nodded, knowing the feeling she was referring to. We were not friends, or even colleagues. We had been momentary allies brought together by a common enemy. Maybe in the future our paths would cross again, but perhaps not.

  Either way, both sides would be just fine.

  “How’d you leave it at the station?” I asked.

  “Just as we’d talked about,” Skye said, again shifting up to look at me. “I handed over the drive, let them see everything they would possibly need to run the story, to bury Jacoby, his campaign, his career, all of it.”

  “And they left it at that?”

  A small smirk was the first response, the sight of it almost out of place on her features, given all that had occurred. “Not even a little bit. They wanted me to sit down with them, to do a full exclusive, to disclose to the world who I was and how I had come to be in possession of so much information.”

  I waited there for her to continue, and when nothing further came, prompted, “What did you tell them?”

  “Told them that I was a student, that some guy outside had given me $50 to carry the drive in and tell them it would be worth their time to take a look.”

  “Which they didn’t buy at all.”

  “Nope,” Skye confirmed, “but that’s all I was going to say. We’re already going to spend the next six months looking over our shoulders, no need to make it even harder by plastering my face all over every paper and newscast in the country.”

  Raising my eyebrows in concession, I countered, “Some truth to that whole hiding in plain sight thing.”

  Outside, a troupe of young girls walked by, all in matching plaid skirts and jackets, argyle socks pulled to their knees. None even glanced at the shiny black car parked on the curb as they passed, all lost in conversation as they streamed out of the station, most likely a class out for an early field trip.

  “There is,” Skye said, “but that’s never been my style. I like the shadows better.”

  Handfuls of thoughts and responses came to mind, but I let each one pass by, not needing to articulate anything further. With that last sentence she had basically said goodbye, and it was time for us to do the same.

  “You guys...” she said, drawing my attention back to the mirror. “You two have an interesting thing here, but it works, and I respect it.

  “Good luck to you both.”

  Without realizing it, I felt my eyebrows again slide a little ways up my forehead.

  It was probably the most cogent thing an outside person had ever said to describe our relationship.

  “And you as well,” I replied. “I don’t know where you’re planning to go, and it’s probably better that way, but if you ever need anything, I’m sure you of all people can find us.”

  Staring back at me in the mirror, a small smile parted Skye’s lips, allowing just a sliver of teeth to show through.

  “Thanks. You as well.”

  With that she placed a hand on the door, wrenching it open, a burst of cold air and the sharp sound of a train whistle pouring in.

  “Stan and Dianna,” Rae said, her first words since we’d left the parking lot. Without turning to look back, she said them loud enough for Skye to hear, both she and I staring at Rae, neither attempting to hide our surprise.

  “What?” Skye asked, one foot poised on the sidewalk, her body half in and half out of the car.

  “Our names,” Rae said. “Obviou
sly Laredo and Rae won’t work anymore, so start by looking for Stan and Dianna.”

  Again the smile flashed, this time a little larger, Skye realizing what Rae was telling her, how much it meant.

  “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  Without another word she retreated from the car, slamming it shut behind her and walking toward the station, not once turning back in our direction. In silence we sat and watched her go, waiting until she was swallowed up by the crowd before calling the engine to life.

  Our next stop was to go back to Springfield and see if our cars were still there. If they were we would salvage whatever we could before leaving them behind and setting off to somewhere new.

  Where that was or what it would entail was at this point anybody’s guess.

  In the meantime, I think we both just wanted a shower and a few hours of sleep.

  “Stan and Dianna, huh?” I asked, dropping the gear shift into drive and moving away from Union Station, the morning traffic heavy, promising a slog most of the way south.

  In my periphery, I saw Rae drop her chin just an inch in a nod. “Yep, with two n’s.”

  Where she had gotten the names, I didn’t bother asking.

  Given everything that had happened in the last few days, I figured I had other things to focus on anyway.

  “Works for me.”

  “That’s...” Alan Gentry began, his voice, his gaze, both even as he sat and stared at Meyers Jacoby sitting across from him, trying to find the right words, “quite a story.”

  On the opposite side of the table Jacoby lifted his right leg, crossing it over his left knee, and folded his hands atop them. He remained silent, staring back at Gentry for a moment before averting his gaze to the bay window overlooking the Capital Mall outside.

  “Is it true?” Gentry asked.

  Still there was no response from Jacoby, his focus twisted to the side, his lips parted slightly, as good an admission of guilt as anything Gentry had ever seen.

  As the man headlining the Republican ticket, he had never been entirely comfortable with naming Jacoby as his running mate. The decision had been made from the party higher-ups, people that saw Jacoby was from Virginia and served as Chair of the Armed Forced Committee, was a physician and a veteran himself.

  While not always the most polished, on paper he seemed to check nearly every box that would appeal directly to their constituent base.

  Because of that Gentry had gone along with the choice, but in the time since nothing had changed his original opinion of the man sitting across from him.

  The first time they had ever met was at a party fundraiser two years before, Jacoby making it clear within seconds that he thought he was better than Gentry, and just about every other person in the room. Twice during their first conversation he had mentioned being on the Armed Forces Committee, three times that he was a licensed physician.

  Such things were to be expected, the sort of D.C. grandstanding that Gentry had become immune to over the years.

  Once Jacoby went as far as to mention that he rose to work out at 5:30 every morning, making the backhanded insinuation that Gentry would be well served to pick up a similar routine, a healthy disdain was born that had not relinquished over the years.

  Now, sitting in the silence of his office, he barely recognized the man across from him. Gone was the usual bluster and self-confidence, the sort of thing that rankled Gentry to no end but voters seemed to gobble up in greedy helpings.

  In their place was a man that looked far beyond his years, the heavy amount of product in his hair keeping it plastered to his skull, the skin around his eyes and neck sagging slightly.

  It was clear he had also lost weight in the preceding week, the suit he wore no longer fitting him, seeming to hang from his shoulders.

  For a moment, a hint of a smile crossed Gentry’s face as he drew out the silence between them, making Jacoby endure every last second of awkwardness. Not until it reached the point of becoming mean spirited did he finally speak again, releasing both sides from the meeting.

  “Well, thank you for sitting down with me,” Gentry said. “I appreciate it, and accept your resignation. Thank you for your hard work up to this point.”

  When the news first broke about the way Jacoby had been misappropriating resources under his committee’s control, Gentry had gone back to the party and pointed out that this sort of thing happened when they got too involved in things. Knowing there was no way they could rightly argue against him, he had demanded the autonomy to choose his own running mate in the coming weeks, already having someone in mind, needing only to wait the requisite amount of time before making the announcement.

  Despite his having no active role in Jacoby’s dealings, he still needed to play the part of contrition, pausing before putting on a brave face and pushing forward.

  Giving the American people the election, the choice, the campaign, they deserved and all that.

  Shifting to look at Gentry, Jacoby nodded once. Rising from his seat, he extended a limp hand, saying simply, “Thank you for the opportunity. It was quite an honor.”

  Standing across from him, Gentry returned the handshake.

  In true Jacoby fashion, there had still been no admission of guilt, not even an apology for any black mark he might have made on the party ticket.

  “Take care of yourself,” Gentry replied, shifting and extending a hand toward the door. Making no effort to escort him out, he waited until Jacoby disappeared before settling back into his seat, knowing full well his own Chief of Staff would be in directly.

  Thirty seconds he was proven correct, Sharon Weidle stepping through, a stack of folders clutched to her chest. Dressed in a brown skirt and matching jacket, she strode across the carpeted floor in tan flats before dropping herself unceremoniously into the chair across from him.

  “Judging by the look on his face as he left, I’m guessing that was fun?”

  Feeling a smile form, Gentry replied, “Was for me.”

  “Nice,” Weidle said, a matching grin appearing. “He admit anything?”

  “Nope,” Gentry replied.

  “Offer any apologies?”

  “Not a one.”

  Smirking slightly, Weidle shifted her gaze toward the door, shaking her head. “Typical.”

  She held the pose a moment, the same look on her features, before moving back to Gentry, all business once again. “Okay, now that that’s over, we can begin discussions on naming his successor.”

  Before she could get any further Gentry held up a hand, patting the air in front of him a couple of times, signaling for her to slow down.

  “Actually, before we get into that, there’s something else I want to talk about first.”

  Sitting in the chair Jacoby had just vacated, Weidle’s eyebrows rose up her forehead, the standard look she gave Gentry when awaiting further instruction.

  “I’ve had a few of my sources put out feelers, and it looks like the person that first brought the story to light in Chicago was a girl named Skye Grant.

  “I want to do some digging on her. I feel like there might be something there we can use.”

  Turn the page to read Catastrophic, a standalone novel.

  Catastrophic

  It is good to express a thing twice right at the outset and so to give it a right foot and also a left one. Truth can surely stand on one leg, but with two it will be able to walk and get around. -Friedrich Nietzsche

  Chapter One

  The law firm of Webster, Banks & Cohen, like most firms of its ilk around the county, had a well-defined hierarchy. Unlike all the others though, it assigned offices in ascending order of seniority.

  The first floor was comprised of the palatial offices of Martin Webster, Jack Banks, and Howard Cohen, though they were rarely, if ever, seen in them.

  The second floor was subdivided into six offices, each of them filled with the first hires of the firm forty years before. Two of the men had already retired into schedules similar to the founding m
embers, while the other four still at least pretended to be working most days.

  The third floor was split into ten offices, the second-year hires, followed by eight floors with fifteen offices each. All of those offices were filled with people that had been with the firm a minimum of twenty-five years. Every one of them still showed up at least five days a week, many working the same long hours they had when they started.

  Somebody had to keep their trophy ex-wives in the lifestyles they'd grown accustomed to.

  Above those eleven were fifteen more floors, all belonging to the firm. Levels twelve through twenty-four consisted of attorneys ranging from those on the cusp of making partner to those just a few years removed from law school. Grouped in teams of three to five, each one had their own receptionist and paralegal, a veritable free standing entity unto themselves.

  Residing at the very top, the twenty-sixth floor was reserved for the rookies. Every single attorney that had ever working for Webster, Banks & Cohen started there, a fierce testing ground for new hires.

  Nicknamed the two-six, the entirety of the space was one large room with a tangle of desks strewn about. On their first day the new hires were assigned to a particular desk, but where they put it and how they chose to interact with the room was left up to them.

  Corporate America's truest Rorschach test.

  Some angled for the windows, taking advantage of the fact that their firm was the only one in the city that didn’t bury them in the basement. Others chose the middle of the room, displaying their bravado for all to see and daring others to challenge them.

  On his first day, Shane Lazlo chose the corner.

  Not the one closest to the door or the one where two banks of floor-to-ceiling windows intersected, but the far corner.

  As others sought out the coveted positions, shoving their heavy old desks into position while wearing expensive designer suits, Shane nudged his into the darkened corner and began unpacking his bag. By the time some of his smaller coworkers had managed to post up just where they wanted, he had already read through the employee handbook and was moving on to the standard stack of first day documentation.