by Brian Shea
“She overcompensates with aggression. I would describe her as hostile. She’s very direct and seems to derive pleasure in making people uncomfortable. Simmons is obviously intelligent, otherwise she wouldn’t be in the position she’s in. There’s a certain clout about her, and the other agents, including the boss, give her wide berth when she moves about the office. I know she is BAU so maybe she’s spent so much time studying other people she forgot how to be one herself. Basically, if I had to sum her up in one word it’d be bitch.”
Salazar pulled into a parking spot in the nearly vacant lot of the FBI’s Austin field office. Technically, it was referred to as a satellite office or resident agency of the bigger San Antonio field office, but Nick didn’t care about such labels. Salazar put the vehicle in park, but left the engine idling.
Nick gave a wide-eyed look toward the rookie agent in the driver’s seat as if he’d been offended at the assessment.
“Do you know that Simmons is my long-time partner and best friend?” Nick said.
Salazar’s head fell forward and came to rest on the worn rubber of the steering wheel. “Shit. I should’ve known better.”
Nick watched the tormented Salazar squirm in anguish. He allowed this to continue a moment longer before deciding to let him off the hook.
Nick chuckled at his ruse. “I’m just messing with you. Like I said, I’ve never met the woman. Wow, you almost fell apart on me there. I thought I was going to have to call in the medics,” Nick said, giving the green agent a slight smile.
Salazar exhaled loudly. “You definitely got me good. I’m not going to lie; I wasn’t going to go back in that building if that were true. The woman terrifies me.”
“Well let’s go meet this scary lady,” Nick said, exiting the vehicle.
He shouldered his backpack and marched off toward the building.
He entered through the first set of doors which automatically opened as he stepped on a sensor pad. That same sensor pad also calculated his weight and stored it in a database. Three different cameras affixed at different heights and angles captured both agents as they stood in the entrance. Nick then entered the sequence code into the keypad that allowed after-hours access to the building.
The interior doors slid open, and Nick stepped into the all-to-familiar main lobby with Salazar in tow. Nick considered this building a second home. A home now host to a fiery redhead with an agenda unknown to him. His concern grew with each step he took.
11
The elevator chimed, alerting their arrival on the third floor. The doors parted, and Nick was greeted with the glow of the pale lighting of the office space. It seemed brighter than normal in contrast to the dark, moonless night.
“Just so you know, she’s kind of taken over here,” Salazar said meekly.
“Great,” Nick said, letting out a sigh.
He walked toward his cubicle, among the small cluster of partitioned work spaces. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and saw the woman who’d ordered him back to Texas without any care for the tragedy that befell Izzy. She stood hunched over the conference table sifting through a stack of files. She must’ve heard their entry because she turned her head. Her distinctive shoulder-length red hair fell to the side as she visually assessed him. Salazar’s physical description had been spot on and she was actually more attractive than he’d anticipated, but the sight of her caused him to involuntarily clench his teeth.
She gestured to an empty chair to her left but didn’t smile. Nick didn’t acknowledge her and passed by, proceeding directly to his desk. He dropped his backpack at the foot of his three-drawer filing cabinet, grabbed his mug, and then made a beeline for the small break room.
He smelled the coffee as he entered and saw that a full pot waited. So far it was the only upside to his forced return. He poured the steaming black liquid into his cup. A hint of hazelnut wafted up. Nick wasn’t particular about his coffee as long as it was piping hot and fully loaded with caffeine. He tossed a scoop of sugar in and gave it a quick swirl. Nick held the cup close to his lips before taking a sip allowing the steam to lick at his face.
He turned to see Salazar standing in the doorway. Nick gave a half-hearted smile.
“If you’re all set, I’m going to head out,” Salazar said, glancing over his shoulder toward Simmons. “Unless you want me to stay.”
“I think I can handle myself. I’ll grab one of the spare cars to get home,” Nick said.
“It was really great meeting you. I can’t wait to tell my buddies from the academy that I met the legend.”
“You can also tell them that the stories are always far different from the reality.” Nick paused, taking another sip. “It’s time for me to see how accurate your assessment of Simmons was. If you were half-right, then I’m in for a long night.”
Nick noticed that Salazar wasted no time in vacating the office area. Nick turned his sights on the conference room. A glass panel lined the wall, exposing the rectangular room with a large oval table at its center. There were several television monitors attached to the walls bookending the table. The back wall was an end-to-end dry erase board for writing notes. The room was used for big cases that required the brain power of multiple investigators. It looked like Simmons had taken it upon herself to effectively occupy that territory.
Even though the door to the room was open, Nick knocked lightly on the glass, announcing his presence, although he knew she was well aware of him.
“Have a seat. I see you helped yourself to the coffee I made,” Simmons said.
“Long day,” Nick responded flatly.
“It’s going to be a little bit longer.”
“Listen Cheryl, I came here at your request on a really shitty day. So, let’s get right to it,” Nick said.
He took a pull from his mug trying without much success to swallow down his anger.
“I’m sorry for your loss, but this situation is time critical.”
Nick looked at the woman before him. She remained standing and was stacking the files she’d been pouring over when he’d arrived. Simmons was attractive, and now that he saw her up close, he noticed that her eyes were a bright emerald green that complimented her fair skin and fire red hair. He now understood why Salazar had difficulty evaluating her personality. Nick worked hard to see past her physical beauty and begin his own assessment.
“Why was I pulled from a family emergency? Why am I here?” Nick asked.
“I’ll get to that, but first I’m going to need to ask you to answer some questions,” Simmons said.
Simmons cleared off the table space nearest them and sat down. She reached down to a worn leather satchel resting against the leg of her chair and retrieved a small audio recorder and pad of paper.
“What’s with the recorder?” Nick asked, eyeing Simmons.
“I like to make sure that I get everything correct. I can’t have any of the details slip past me. I have the notepad but I prefer to observe more than write when I talk to someone.”
“Talk or interrogate?”
“Talk. Unless you feel an interrogation is warranted?” Simmons said. Nick noticed that she was giving him an intense stare.
“I’d hope not. I still don’t even know what I’m doing here,” Nick said.
“I think you know more than you’re letting on. And from our earlier phone conversation it looks like somebody gave you a little heads-up.”
“Apparently not enough for me to understand what any of this has to do with me,” Nick said.
“That’s what we’re going to try to figure out,” Simmons said, reaching her hand out toward the recorder. “I’m going to press record now. Understood?”
Nick nodded. He wasn’t used to being on this side of an interview and he didn’t like it.
“Tell me about Richard Pentlow,” Simmons said.
“Pentlow? He’s a child rapist.”
“And?” Simmons asked.
“When he was caught he was found in a hotel room with an ele
ven-year-old girl tied to a bed.”
“What happened to him?” Simmons asked patiently.
“He was arrested and was awaiting trial. Last time I saw him he was in the Travis County Jail. We had a long talk and he confessed,” Nick said.
“And what did the little birdie say when he called you?”
“I know Pentlow’s dead,” Nick said curtly.
“You know more than that Agent Lawrence,” Simmons said cocking her head to the side exposing the gentle contour of her neckline.
Nick sat silently. He leaned back and folded his arms, emotionally closing himself off.
“I hope we’re not going to play games for too much longer. But no worries either way because I can go all night,” Simmons said.
The double entendre was not lost on Nick.
“There was a message,” Nick said.
“And?”
“And, that’s it. I don’t know what the message said. Only that it was written to me,” Nick said, trying to salvage the slip up and protect Jones.
“Okay. Now was that so hard?” Simmons said, softening slightly.
“I didn’t kill Pentlow if that’s what you’re driving at,” Nick said.
“Did I ask you if you killed Pentlow?” Simmons said.
Nick said nothing.
“You don’t fit the bill anyway,” Simmons said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been tracking the Ferryman for years. I’d like to think I’ve got a particular knack for seeing the details. You don’t fit the profile I’ve developed,” Simmons said.
“How so?” Nick said, trying to subtly seize control of the interview from Simmons.
“For starters, you’re too big. The Ferryman is small in stature,” Simmons said. “And your psych doesn’t match.”
“My psych profile?”
“That’s way too big a box to unload tonight,” Simmons said.
Nick couldn’t tell from her flat facial expression if she’d just tried to make a joke.
“You keep referring to this guy as the Ferryman. Why?” Nick asked.
“The killer leaves a coin in the mouth of his victims. It is a symbolic gesture.”
“Symbolic of what?”
“A reference to the boatman, Charon, from Greek mythology, who ferried the dead across the river Styx. The coin is his calling card or token,” Simmons said.
“And I’m involved in this how?”
“He wrote a message to you!” Simmons said bluntly.
“What did it say?” Nick asked.
“I was waiting for you to ask me that question.” She paused and pulled an 8x10 glossy out of the file folder closest to her. She pushed the picture across the shellac finish of the table toward Nick. “Take a look for yourself.”
Nick unfolded his arms and reached over, pulling the photograph the remainder of the way over to him. He picked it up and took a second to study the image.
“Is this written in blood?” Nick asked.
“Pentlow’s.”
Nick said nothing and squinted hard, reading the message again. Where the system fails I prevail. Nick, what stands up tall but reaches low?
“Any thoughts on why he’s naming you in his message?” Simmons asked.
“Not a clue. You?” Nick said, laying the photo back on the table between them.
Now it was Simmons who sat silently.
“I’m guessing the doer, the Ferryman, knew Pentlow was released on bail. Maybe even posted it. I’d start there,” Nick said.
“It’s being looked into.”
Simmons reached across the table and plucked the photograph from the table, returning it to the brown leather of her satchel.
“And we’ll get into the details of the case at a later date. Right now I want you to focus your thoughts on why the Ferryman would name you in the message,” she said.
“Like I said, I’ve got no idea.”
“The Ferryman seems to have some sense of connection with you. Whether it’s real or imagined, we’ll have to find out,” Simmons said.
Nick allowed the thought to marinate and he didn’t like the taste it left. Catching the interest of a serial killer couldn’t have much of an upside.
“Why me?” Nick asked more to himself.
“Whatever the reason, it’s not good,” Simmons said.
“No shit.”
“Get some rest. I’ll be in touch,” Simmons said.
Nick watched as she stood and turned her attention back to her boxes. She began shuffling a pile of files into a frayed cardboard box on the floor. A wave of anger flooded him.
“That’s it!? You’re done!? You flew me back for a fifteen-minute conversation that we could’ve had over the phone? You are some special breed of asshole!” Nick spat the words.
“I don’t do phone interviews,” Simmons replied.
The lack of emotion in her response only fueled his fire. Nick sat seething in a barely controlled rage.
“You don’t do phone interviews? That’s the best answer you’ve got? I guess you don’t give a shit about my former partner who died on the table today? She was one of us. Ten times the agent you are!”
“I’m doing my job. I don’t allow anything to get in the way of that.”
“Well, that’s crystal freakin’ clear. I hope you don’t have a family because I’m sure you wouldn’t put them before your godforsaken cases!” Nick said in a low growl. He immediately realized the hypocrisy of his comment, but anger stopped him from making any attempt to refute it.
Simmons’s eyes narrowed, darkening the brightness of the green. Nick realized he’d struck a nerve and was satisfied by his effective deliver of the blow.
“Have a good night,” Simmons said curtly.
The glimmer of anger that had enveloped Simmons seemed to recede as quickly as it had come, like a passing storm cloud.
Nick stood up. His six-foot frame towered over Simmons. His fists clenched and released in sync with the pulsing of his increased heart rate. He gritted his teeth, grinding hard and sending a ripple along his jawline. Simmons stopped organizing the files and faced Nick.
“Is there something else? If not, I’d tuck that weak attempt at intimidation back wherever you found it,” Simmons said contemptuously.
Simmons seemed to be unaffected by Nick’s rage. He thought, at some level, it actually appeared she was enjoying it. He noticed the corner of her lip begin to bend upward into a hint of a smile.
Nick exited the conference room without saying another word. He moved quickly to his desk, the vortex that trailed him tossed papers from a nearby desk. Without looking back, he grabbed his backpack and keys to the government-issued VW Jetta and made for the elevator.
As the doors were closing he heard Simmons call out to him. “I wouldn’t go too far Agent Lawrence!”
Nick slumped against the cool metal wall of the elevator. His eyes felt heavy and seemed to droop at the same rate as the descending elevator car. He exhaled slowly and took stock of the past two days. At its start, he’d learned he was going to be a dad. The joy of that moment had been stolen from him by Izzy’s tragedy. Her death was still incomprehensible, and he pushed away the thought of it. And now he was the target of a serial murderer.
A killer had taken interest in him. It wasn’t the first time, but the last almost cost him his life. Nick rubbed his left side. The impression of the wide raised scar could be felt beneath the thickness of Declan’s sweatshirt. It served as a constant reminder of that terrifying night. Sleep had not come easy before, and now it rarely came at all. This new threat would undoubtedly add to his perpetual insomnia.
The wind whipped hard as he stepped out into the cold of the Texas night. He sat in the Jetta and looked up at the building he’d just left. The third floor was still lit. Agent Simmons would apparently be burning the midnight oil. As much as he hated her right now, he realized that under a different set of circumstances he’d have appreciated her tenacity.
12
What bends but does not break? What weeps but does not cry?
A whistle sounds as the air coils around the fast-moving branch cutting through the thick warmth of the southern night. The sound is an early warning of its impending arrival. Then comes the pain, a sensation like that of being burned and cut at the same time. Each strike is more painful than its predecessor as old scars are reopened, marking deep the history of this violence. No sounds emanate from the inflicted. No satisfaction will be given to the vicious blows. No begging for it to stop, punishment will not be his reward. It ends as abruptly as it started.
Then the whispers follow, weighted heavy with the scent of sour of whiskey and cheap aftershave, “I’m sorry. It’s for your own good. I’ll make you better. I promise.”
The memory fades, but will resurface again, as it always does on these nights.
The cold air would keep most people indoors tonight. But there are those who don’t have places to go, some by choice and some by circumstance. These creatures scurry about in search of scraps, feeding off the discards of others. Human cockroaches digging through trash and sleeping in alleyways. Most pass by without seeing them, intentionally erasing their existence from view. It’s easier that way.
It’s always tough to make the selection. There are so many to choose from, but tonight’s had been one of design rather than random opportunity. In the soft yellow of the street light’s glow a man appeared from behind a dumpster. The cold apparently had no effect on him because he was only clothed in a white tank top tie-dyed in a swirl of stains. The vagrant completed his ensemble by wearing black basketball shorts accented by his white socks pulled up high, cresting the bony knees.
The man ran his dirty hands through his greasy hair, painting the gray with grime like a poor man’s version of Just For Men Touch of Gray. The long hair and unkempt beard would’ve been considered a grayish white, but the lack of hygiene had given it a yellow-brown tint. He protectively cradled the contents of a brown paper bag. The cylindrical shape denoted his drink of choice for the night was some variety of canned beer. Mostly likely a 40-ounce of malted liquor, ensuring the most bang for his hard-earned buck.