PMadriani 12.5 - The Second Man

by Steve Martini

  Harry knew better than to ask him pointed questions concerning Akers’s medical condition. Instead, he said: “What’s your specialty?”

  “Psychiatry,” said Shivers.

  “PTSD,” said Harry, posttraumatic stress disorder. Looking back at Akers, his conduct that night at the restaurant, it was starting to make sense.

  “Did he talk to you or your partner about his experiences?” asked the doctor.

  “We didn’t take his case,” said Harry, “but the contents of his consultation are privileged.”

  “I understand,” said Shivers, “but we now have a man on the run who we know is very unstable and dangerous. We have two minor children who are missing, and if you know anything that might help us find them . . .”

  “I get it,” said Harry. “To my knowledge, he never said anything that could provide a clue as to where the children might be. The cause of his concern, at least what was stated, without violating any serious confidences, was his fear that the federal government was gearing up to bring a case against him.”

  “Because of leaks concerning classified information relating to high-level missions,” said Shivers. “And the fact that he was discharged because of this.”

  “Then you already know.”

  “He was discharged because of psychiatric disorders. I am going to confide in you because we have an ongoing situation here,” said Shivers. “And whether you know it or not, you may know something that might help us find him.”

  Harry listened.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Not with any certainty,” said Harry.

  “So you’re telling me you have a hunch?”

  Harry gave him an equivocal expression.

  “We’ve been working with local authorities while at the same time trying to keep it under wraps,” said Shivers, “because Akers is high-profile in terms of his background.”

  “So he wasn’t lying about Abbottabad?” said Harry.

  Shivers shook his head. “The restraining order was issued because of threats he had made to his wife and family. Akers was furious. We know that. It may be the reason he killed her.”

  “Of course, that assumes that he did it,” said Harry. He didn’t carry any torch for Akers, but there was no solid evidence as yet.

  “The Navy wanted her to commit him for treatment, an institution,” said Shivers.

  “You mean for the criminally insane?”

  “No, because he hadn’t committed any crime of which we were aware, up to that point,” said Shivers. “She refused to commit him. We urged her to do it. We didn’t have any authority. She was afraid of him, but she still loved him. It was an impossible situation. The man had tried to kill himself twice, and he had been taking some severe risks on missions before he was discharged. It was as if he had a death wish, and it was endangering other people. We had no choice but to remove him from DEVGRU and ultimately discharge him.”

  “He told us that he made the decision to leave the military.”

  “He did,” said Shivers, “because we told him that if he stayed, he would be required to undergo treatment. It’s a terrible thing,” said the doctor, “the trauma of long-term combat. The human psyche is not designed to cope with the ceaseless terror of violent, daily death. The deafening sounds, the smell, the concussive forces, the sudden loss of people you’ve come to think of as near siblings. Actually, that’s wrong. They’re often closer than siblings. Add to that the horrific things they’re forced to witness and at times engage in. To tell you the truth, as bad as it is, and it is bad, I’m surprised that the traumatic effects are not worse. Add to that the nature of the volunteer force, the limited manpower in these wars, and their duration—many of these people are trying to cope with multiple long-term deployments and no real relief. And the politicians are wondering why the V.A. isn’t functioning properly. They don’t want to go back to the draft because that’s not politically convenient.”

  Suddenly, there was a commotion from beyond the yellow tape out in the street. Reporters surrounded one of the detectives, a guy in plain clothes, and began pummeling him with questions. “There’s a rumor you’ve found the children. Are they alive?” The detective ignored them, brushed past the bristling microphones, under the tape, and approached Shivers. He cupped one hand and whispered in the doctor’s ear.

  “It’s OK,” said Shivers. “You can talk in front of him. I believe Mr. Hinds wants to help us.”

  “They found the kids,” said the detective. “They’re both alive.”

  “Where were they?” asked Shivers.

  “With their aunt. Akers’s sister up in L.A. She says he dropped them off,” the cop looks at his notebook, “early morning on the third, about 2:00 A.M.”

  Harry thought for a moment. He tried to recall whether that was the morning after their drinks at the Brigantine.

  “Apparently, according to what the oldest boy told child services, Akers must have come over here, slipped into the house late at night, killed the wife, and told the children that mama was sleeping,” said the detective. “He put the kids in the car and drove north. He told his sister there was a family emergency, and before she could ask any questions, he was gone. We’re still trying to get a lead on where he is.”

  Until that very moment, there had been no hard evidence that Akers was the killer. Perhaps a preponderance of suspicion but nothing more. Assuming the information from the child was accurate, that had now changed. If Paul and Herman were right, and Joselyn was with Akers, she was in serious danger, and his friends were headed toward possible disaster. A confrontation with a man like Akers, who was conditioned to kill on an almost daily basis, could leave one or all of them dead.

  “Do you know where he is?” Shivers looked at Harry.

  “I need to make a phone call,” he told him.

  “By all means,” said the doctor. He told the cop to give Harry a little space, and they both stepped away. The detective continued to study him from under hooded eyes. He saw Harry as the criminal defender, enemy at the gates.

  Harry reached for his cell phone and punched the quick-dial button for Paul’s cell number. He had already called earlier and told them of the gory discovery, Allyson Akers’s body. Paul had cut to the core and asked the pivotal question, whether the coroner or anyone else could fix with certainty the date and time of death. The issue was whether Akers was even in town at the time. It could be that he and Joselyn had already left. In which case, Joselyn would be his ironclad alibi. Now that was gone. The events had seemingly fixed the time of the murder. If Allyson was alive when Akers took the kids, she would have called the police. He was violating the restraining order. She didn’t because she couldn’t. She was dead. Akers had killed her. What had once appeared to Harry as a long shot, the specter of Joselyn and Akers camped on a military post in a remote area of Central California, was beginning to take on the specter of a nightmare.

  Chapter 20

  THE SECOND JOSELYN opened the bedroom door, Akers turned, looked at her, and said: “Wow! You do polish up nice, don’t you?” He stood in the living room, looking over the back of the couch, taking her in with hungry eyes.

  When he started to walk toward her, she said: “No, you stay right there and let me make the tea. Then we’ll cozy up on the couch and talk.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Joselyn turned and walked to the kitchen. There was an electric kettle for boiling water. She filled it, made sure it was plugged in, hit the button, and turned it on. She grabbed two cups, mugs from the cupboard over the sink. She saw a large four-cup French press for making coffee and took that down, too. She took the mechanical press out of its clear glass carafe. This she would use to steep the tea, then pour two cups, one of which she would lace with the Ambien for Akers. There was no chance of confusion since the mugs bore different colors, one red, one blue.

  “So you think this stuff will work?” He was talking about the aphrodisiac that was supposed to be in the tea.
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  “Oh, yeah!” She was talking about the Ambien that would be there instead. She listened as the electric kettle began to boil the water. She dropped both tea bags into the glass carafe from the press and stood there tapping her fingernails on the countertop.

  “Can I help you?”

  “No, no. This is my job,” she said. “Why don’t you take a load off? Sit down on the couch. I’ll be there in a minute.” That way his back would be to the open kitchen. He’d be less likely to see what she was doing.

  “I’m tired of sitting,” he said. “Besides, I like watching you. That is a sexy outfit. We’re gonna have to go shopping sometime.”

  “That would be nice.” She was fine with it just as long as the place was crowded with plenty of armed security. She turned to look at him. He was standing there staring at her. She smiled, comely but nervous. How she was going to get the foil packet out of the top of her nylons with him watching was a mystery The second he saw her hand move to her upper thigh, he would want to come over and help. “Can you do me a favor?”

  “What do you need?”

  “Can you check the bathroom? I couldn’t find my dark glasses earlier. I think I might have left them in there.”

  “Sure.”

  She heard the rubber soles of his light tactical boots squeak on the hardwood floor as he turned and walked toward the bathroom. Immediately she reached down, fished for the foil packet, took it out, and unfolded it. She started to pour the powder into the red mug.

  “I don’t see ’em.”

  “They’ve gotta be there. I can’t find ’em anywhere else. Keep looking.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.” Her hands were shaking. She only intended to pour part of the contents into the cup. She couldn’t be sure how potent it might be. Finally, she poured it all, quickly balled up the used foil, and tossed it into the open wastebasket. She immediately ripped open two of the packets of Equal and poured them in on top, then tossed the little blue packs in the trash as well. The water reached a boil and the electric kettle shut down. She filled the carafe with hot water. The tea began to steep.

  An instant later, he came out of the bathroom. “They’re not in there.”

  “I musta left ’em in the car,” she said.

  “We can check in the morning,” said Akers. Instead of going back to the couch, he wandered into the kitchen, moved up close behind her, and put his hands around her waist.

  Joselyn could feel his hot breath on her naked shoulder. She wanted to put her hand over the open mug to cover the white powder in the bottom, but she didn’t dare. It might fire his paranoia the minute he saw her make the move. She was hoping he wouldn’t look down.

  Then he leaned forward, kissed her on the nape of the neck, and said: “What’s that?”

  “What?”

  “That stuff in the cup.”

  “Oh, that. Some Equal,” she said. “You do use sweetener?”

  “The only sweet thing I need right now is you. Coffee and tea, I take au naturel. And you and I can try some of the same later.”

  “Fine, I’ll toss it. I’m not partial to sweeteners either.”

  “I’ll take the blue cup,” he said.

  “Whatever you like. Now let me finish up here,” she said. “You go back out there and wait.” She tried to sound motherly, hoping he would take directions. He did.

  The second he stepped back, turned, and walked away, she dumped the contents of the red mug into the blue one. She thought for a moment, then took the last packet of Equal and poured it into to the red mug, the one she would be drinking from.

  Minutes later, they were seated on the couch, the two mugs in front of them on the low coffee table. Akers had his hands all over her, stroking the nylon on her upper thigh with his other hand around her shoulder. He kissed her on the lips.

  “If you’re like this now, what are you gonna be like after the tea?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t we find out,” she said.

  “Sure.” He reached down, picked up the blue mug, and took a sip. She did the same with the red one.

  “That’s awful sweet,” he said. “You sure I got the right cup?”

  “I think it’s the tea,” said Joselyn. “Probably an herbal blend. Mine is sweet, too.”

  He reached over, took the mug from her hand, and tasted it. “You’re right. The only problem is it’s a little hot for me. Lemme put a little cold water in it.”

  “Here, let me get that for you.”

  “No. No you stay there,” he said.

  He got up and carried the cup to the kitchen. He stood in front of the sink with his broad back to her, so she couldn’t see what he was doing. But she heard him turn on the water.

  “You know, the tap water here tastes like shit,” he said.

  He left it running with the mug on the counter as he went to the ice chest and pulled out a bottle of water. Then he went back to the counter to cool off the tea. A few seconds later, he turned off the lights in the kitchen and came back to the couch. He gulped down the tea and sat there, leering at her. She had done it! Now if she could only endure the wrestling match that was to follow and give the drug time to work.

  “Listen, I’m gonna take my shower.”

  “I like you the way you are.”

  “You’ll like me a lot more once I wash off the sweat of the road.”

  “Go ahead, just don’t take too long.”

  She did. She immediately went back to the bedroom, grabbed her street clothes and her running shoes, and wrapped them in one of the large guest bath towels, then headed for the bathroom. He glanced at her and smiled as she walked by, reached out over the back of the couch, and patted her on the ass. Fortunately, he didn’t check the bath towel tucked like a football under her outside arm.

  “Back in a minute,” she said. She went into the bathroom and closed the door. She turned on the shower but she didn’t get in. Instead, she changed her clothes, sat on the closed toilet lid, and waited. She wasn’t sure how much time passed, but he wasn’t hollering for her to hurry up. It was a good sign. Finally, she got up, went to the door, and opened it just a crack. The sound of the shower covered any noise. He was sprawled on the couch, his head lying back as if maybe he was asleep. Then he suddenly shook himself awake, offered up a massive yawn, struggled to his feet, and seemed to stumble toward the other bedroom.

  She watched as he flipped off the lights in the living room, went into the bedroom, and closed the door. A few seconds later, the crack of light under the door went dark. He was down. She was sure of it. But to be certain, she waited, counted five hundred slowly.

  She turned off the light in the bathroom but left the shower running, hoping it might cover any noise she made. When she opened the bathroom door, it was pitch-black in the living room, all the curtains drawn, the blinds shut. Joselyn was afraid she might trip over something. She was feeling with her hands, the only sure point of navigation, a sliver of light under the entry door leading to the stairs down from the tower. She moved toward it. Almost there, only a few feet to go. She could barely glimpse the outline of the door in the darkness ahead of her. Suddenly, she smelled something medicinal. It wafted on the air in the dark room.

  She kept moving one foot in front of the other. The smell became stronger as she approached the door. It was coming from outside somewhere. It had to be. She felt the feathery wisp of threads at her throat. The back of her hand brushed the doorknob. She reached for it, and suddenly the stench covered her mouth, the foul odor filling her nostrils and streaming toward her stomach, almost making her retch. The cloth sealed her nose and mouth. Joselyn struggled, she fought, her knees buckled, head lulled back, her neck arched, and everything went black.

  Akers dragged her limp body a few feet, reached over, and turned on a lamp in the corner. With the flare of green light, he ripped the night goggles from his head. He held the cloth tight to her face until he was sure she was out cold.

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sp; Akers knew that she had been playing games in the kitchen. He had tossed the cup of tea down the sink when the water was running and poured a fresh one from the leftovers in the glass pitcher. He figured that this was a common source and that she wouldn’t be poisoning herself. After that, all that was required was a little acting.

  Now he had work to do. He realized that the minute Henley had time, he would check with the Agency back at Langley and do a background on him. Sooner or later, they were going to find Allyson’s body at the house in Chula Vista. Once the news hit the tube, it would go national. Navy SEAL, Team Six on the lam. If word of Henley’s sighting of him here got to Langley, how long before they put the pieces together to track his trail?

  He could have tied Joselyn up, but instead it was more efficient to allow the chloroform to do the job. He soaked the cloth one more time, turning his face away so that the fumes wouldn’t get him. Then he positioned it over her mouth and nose and tied it off around her head with two large rubber bands. He tented the cloth up a bit so that she would draw air in with the ether. He was certain it would keep her out of commission for at least an hour, and that was all the time he needed. He left the small radio-jamming device in the drawer of the table in the living room just in case Joselyn stirred and made it to her cell phone before he could get back. Then he carried her to her bedroom and dumped her on the bed.

  Chapter 21

  HENLEY WAS PARKED in one of the spaces out in front of the Hacienda. It was just after 11:00 P.M. He was sitting in the small blue sedan with federal plates and signs on the doors that marked him as a government gofer. The car was a rolling piece of crap operated by the GSA.

  But then Henley wasn’t a field agent. He didn’t rate a high-end rental car. He was considered a bean counter and got about as much respect as an auditor with the IRS. It was little wonder they raked every taxpayer over the coals. And Henley couldn’t even do that. All he could do was try to blow the whistle on Defense Department contractors, all of whom had close, well-moneyed friends in Congress.