“Thanks for the warning,” Lawrence said.
The man disconnected.
Discontinued. Lawrence ran his finger around the steering wheel. It certainly didn’t mean fired. The agency didn’t fire people. Either you were in or you were out. And if you were out, it meant you were dead. Discontinued.
He wouldn’t fail, though. He never had and never would. Persistence was a trait of his that had gotten him through too many tours in desert wastelands and landed him countless scores for the agency. He was their most successful tool. A pit bull when it came to completing a mission. That wasn’t about to change now.
Upon entering the coffee shop, another memory assaulted Peter.
He’s at a booth, sipping coffee. He’s wearing a uniform, dark blue, short sleeves. Beneath the shirt is a thick vest, tight against his chest and around to his back. Another man is with him, another officer, presumably his partner. On the wall behind the booth is a large clock with a round white face and bold black numbers, its hands showing 7:45. The other cop—what was his name?—smirks and says, “You hear what happened with Rodriguez?”
Peter shakes his head. “Which one?”
“The old man.”
The waitress behind the counter hands them each a steaming coffee. She smiles at Peter’s partner, but it isn’t the friendly type of smile that would normally pass between a waitress and her customers. No, this is a knowing smile, a more-than-friendly smile that makes Peter suspicious of their relationship.
When she glances at Peter, he merely nods at her, then says to his partner, “What? Did someone get to him?”
His partner drags his eyes from the waitress’s slender figure long enough to take a slow sip of coffee. “He’s gettin’ out.”
“What do you mean he’s getting out? He was put away for thirty.”
“Struck some kind of deal with the DA and they got him out early.”
“What kind of deal?”
His partner shrugs. “Confidential, they say.”
Peter was still standing in the doorway, one hand lingering on the door’s handle, when Amy touched his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”
“Uh, yeah. Yes.” The memory had come out of nowhere like a fleet of kamikaze planes. This place, this café, was familiar to him, but he’d never been here; he was certain of it. And he’d never been a cop—of that he was certain too. His mind was misfiring, splicing together images and memories from his past—maybe movies he’d watched or stories he’d read—and creating some alternate reality.
“You sure?” Amy said. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“And what does that look like?”
“The look or the ghost?”
Peter shook his head. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“Planning, I hope.”
Inside the coffee shop were five patrons. An elderly couple at a corner table, both with coffees. The man read a brochure about a cruise to Iceland; his coffee was black and hot. His wife held her mug with both hands and watched the lazy morning traffic out the window. A young woman, no more than thirty, sipped an iced coffee while paging through a magazine. She wore a beret and scarf, no jacket but a heavy wool sweater. Then there were two men at the counter, both middle-aged, rugged and unshaven, jeans-and-sweatshirt types, both taking their time with their black coffees. One read a newspaper while the other made small talk with the woman behind the counter. She seemed uncomfortable with his attention but remained polite.
After ordering a coffee and a latte, Peter and Amy seated themselves at a table for two toward the back of the shop. Peter faced the front door but was aware of the customer restroom behind him and the entrance to the kitchen to his right. Beyond the kitchen would be the rear exit. He turned his chair a little to the right so he could clearly see both the front door and the kitchen come-and-go area.
Sipping his coffee, he said to Amy. “Sorry about your landscaping back there.”
“Peter, we need to go back.”
Peter shook his head. “Can’t. They’ll be waiting for that.”
“Who will be waiting?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not a fugitive. I can’t just abandon my home, my career, and go on the run.”
Peter bit his cheek and nodded slowly. “Maybe you should go now.”
“Go where?”
“To the cops. There must be a police station in this town.”
“You said the cops weren’t safe.”
“Not for me. But there’s no reason to put both of us in the line of fire. Besides, they’ll believe you.”
Amy turned in her seat but hesitated.
“What’s the matter?” Peter said. “Go. I can handle it on my own from here.”
Amy faced Peter again. “Whoever is after you, if they’ve gone this far, surely they wouldn’t just forget about me.”
“Go, Amy.”
“I can’t. If you have a price on your head, then so do I by now. Besides, whatever happened in the past, you’re still . . . very important to me.”
Peter sighed. “Amy, I never meant—”
“I’m not trying to make this awkward. But I’m staying. I’d rather know where the danger is coming from for a while than live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, wondering whether they’re coming for me.”
Peter glanced around the shop. For the moment, nothing seemed out of place. “All right. Thank you, I guess. And I’m sorry. We need to stay off the grid. We use only cash from here on out.”
“And how long do we have to do that? How long before we can go home again?”
Peter shrugged. How long before either of them could go home again? “When all this is over.”
Amy sipped her latte again and stared at the table. “Who are they, Peter? Seriously.”
“I honestly don’t know. The government, I think.”
“Why are they after you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.” She set her latte down and folded her hands on the table. “Let’s start here. What do you know?”
Peter paused, swirled the coffee in the cup. The black liquid reflected the lights of the café in alternating black-and-white concentric circles. In the dark swirls Peter found Amy’s face, distorted, etched with pain—no, agony and fear. A chill passed through him as easily as frigid air penetrates loose-knit fabric. Quickly he took another sip of the coffee to erase the image. Her question was valid, though. What did he know? The problem was that he wasn’t sure what he knew—really knew—and what he’d only imagined or dreamed or concocted in a distant corner of his mind. Wherever the line was between the actual events of his past and his memory of it, Peter had no idea. His mind was feeding him lies, and he didn’t know what to hold on to: the reality he experienced or the reality other people were telling him about. Regardless, he had a lot to explain to Amy and would do his best to share only what he knew or perceived to be factual. “I know I awoke this morning and Karen and Lilly were gone.”
“Because they died and were buried.” She didn’t say it without feeling; she wasn’t cold like that. But Amy had always been matter-of-fact. It was one of the qualities that made her a great psychologist and researcher.
“Only I don’t believe that. Not anymore. I’m not even sure I ever believed it.” He downed the remaining coffee in the cup. “Then these three guys show up, break into my home. They had guns. Looks like they meant to kill me.”
Amy leaned in. “But why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have done something, known somebody, made enemies somewhere. Something. Did you tick anybody off? Cheat somebody?”
“No. Absolutely not.” At least not that he could remember. Not that he could even trust his own memory anymore. So he stuck to what he could be sure of. “You know me. Am I the type to make enemies? Those kind of enemies?”
She took the latte cup in both hands. “Of course not.”
“There was one thing, though. That guy at your house.”
<
br /> “Baldy.”
“Yeah. I recognized him from somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. I know I’ve seen him before, though.” He didn’t want to tell her about the flashback. The gunshots. The ski mask. Not until he figured out where his memories were coming from and what and who they involved.
“So where do we go from here?”
“Centralia.”
“But we don’t know anything about the place—not what it is or where it’s located.”
Peter pushed back his chair and stood. “Then we’d better find out.”
The contact had phoned him one last time, another unfamiliar voice from another unfamiliar number. It was a man again, deep, raspy voice with a slight Southern drawl. Maybe North Carolina, maybe Virginia. They were taking extra precautions this time, following additional steps to check on him and guide him along. Making sure he did his job. But Lawrence didn’t need them to hold his hand. He was well-versed in what he was about to do. Their lack of confidence in him only served to heighten his level of irritation.
After clicking off the phone and dropping it into a cup holder in the center console, he cranked the radio louder than usual. Perry Como was in the middle of crooning “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
Lawrence relaxed in the seat of the Lincoln and maintained a steady speed. He used music to focus himself, and he needed to focus. While he had no doubt he could take Patrick, he still needed to respect his old friend. Patrick’s abilities were unmatched by many; he’d always shown promise, carried so much potential. When he failed to become all that was expected of him, the disappointment around the agency was palpable. For months everyone paid the price for Patrick’s failure. The director was furious and intolerable and wanted to make sure a similar breakdown never happened again.
Lawrence steered the Lincoln into the parking lot of an empty warehouse and next to a receiving dock. The place looked like it had been abandoned for years. Weeds, knee-high and thick as a finger, poked up through cracks in the asphalt. The block walls of the building were cracked and stained with rust from the metal roofing and rainspouts. The concrete foundation had crumbled at one corner, causing the building to sag in that area.
Leaving the car, Lawrence moved on foot around the corner of the warehouse, down the short alleyway, and to the street, sticking close to storefronts and staying in the shadows of overhanging roofs. Running his hand over his head and retrieving the handgun from its holster, he quickened his pace. The café was just a block away.
Peter headed over to the woman at the table across the room, the magazine reader with the beret and scarf. Late twenties, with smooth skin, dark-brown hair, and large, innocent, dark eyes. As he neared, she appeared to not notice him. She sipped at her iced coffee through a straw but kept her eyes on the magazine the entire time.
Approaching her, he said, “Excuse me, ma’am.”
She looked up, not startled that a complete stranger would approach her in the coffee shop but rather surprised that she hadn’t seen him coming, so engrossed was she in her magazine. “Yes?”
“Hi. I know this is a strange request, but might you look something up for us on your phone? A friend recently mentioned a place we’ve never heard of. Can you help us out? We’re both still in the dark ages with dumb phones.”
She glanced at Amy, seated across the café, and smiled. It was a nice smile, friendly, warm, welcoming. This was a woman who naturally assumed the best in people. “Sure. What’s the name of it?”
“Centralia.”
The woman reached for her phone and tapped the screen. “Centralia. Hm. Never heard of it either. Is it the name of a town?”
He had no idea. “I think it is.”
Her fingers went to work on the screen, and within seconds her eyes were scanning back and forth. “Sure is. Looks like it’s a town in Pennsylvania. It says Centralia is a near ghost town. Its population has dwindled from over one thousand residents in 1981 to its current ten as a result of a mine fire burning beneath the town since 1962.” She tapped the phone several more times with her index finger. “Interesting. Over the years they’ve made several attempts to put the fire out but have had no success. In 1981 a twelve-year-old boy fell into a sinkhole and nearly died.”
So it was a town. But was he supposed to recognize the name? What connection did Karen and possibly he have with a town in Pennsylvania? And what about this town could have brought hit men to his home? It still meant nothing to him. He now had a town in Pennsylvania, a ghost town, burning for decades, but nothing more to go on. No hook that affixed the town to either himself or Karen.
He smiled at the woman. “That is interesting. Thank you. Can I ask one more thing of you?”
“Sure.” She looked at him expectantly.
“I’m sorry. I know this is all very intrusive and I’m interrupting your reading.”
She shook her head and smiled. “No, no. Don’t apologize. This is fascinating. I love learning new things, especially little factoids like this. Now I can wow all my friends by telling them about Centralia, the burning town.”
Peter leaned forward. “Thank you so much. Can you pull up a map of the town’s location in Pennsylvania? Just out of curiosity. I was born in PA and have never heard of it. I’m interested to see where it is.”
“Absolutely.” Her fingers went to work again, and in short time she handed him the phone. “There you go. Looks like, true to its name, it’s near the center of the state.”
“Sure does,” Peter said. He handed the phone back to her. “Thanks. You’ve been a big help.”
“Where were you born?” the woman asked, putting the phone in her purse.
“Near the PA–Maryland line, little town called Fairfield. I was actually born in Gettysburg Hospital.”
“Interesting,” she said. “I grew up in western PA. Went to Pitt, then got married and moved here. My husband is from Vermont.”
“Well,” Peter said, “from one Pennsylvanian to another, thank you for your help.”
She smiled wide, and those big, amicable eyes twinkled in the café’s lighting. “Glad I could be of help.”
Peter turned away from the woman and glanced out the large plate-glass windows that made up the café’s front facade. Stepping up onto the sidewalk, just as casually as if he were out shopping on a Sunday afternoon and had decided to take a break for a coffee, was the bald gunman from Amy’s house. In his right hand, keeping it close to his thigh, he held his handgun. He’d found them. But how? Pulse suddenly racing, adrenaline flooding his arteries, every nerve fiber, every sense on high alert, Peter turned to the woman who had just so kindly offered her assistance and said, “Get down. Under the table.”
She must have seen the intensity in his eyes because after a quick glance out the front window, she slid off the seat, squatting beneath the table.
Peter hurried across the café to Amy.
Her eyes were wide and worried, her lips parted. “What’s going on? What’s the matter?”
Peter took her by the arm. “Quickly. Back door.”
She slid her chair away from the table and stood without hesitation.
But even as they left the main seating section and entered the area behind the counter, the gunman pushed through the front door.
Peter made eye contact with the woman taking orders and running the register; he presumed she was the owner of the small establishment. There was uncertainty in her eyes and a spark of fear. “Get down and stay down,” he said.
Like the dark-haired woman in the beret at the table, she obeyed immediately and dropped to her knees.
Peter shoved Amy ahead of him into the kitchen. “Out the back, get the truck started. If he comes out first, gun it and get out of here.” Silently cursing himself for leaving one of the handguns in the car, Peter drew the other from the waist of his jeans and passed it to her. “Just in case.”
Amy ran through the kitchen and disappeared out the back door. Pet
er ducked behind a stainless steel shelving unit, not expecting it to conceal him indefinitely but looking for any advantage he might gain. Moments later the gunman entered the kitchen. Peter had to act quickly. The owner was probably already calling the police, and while they would be helpful in a situation like this, he wasn’t ready yet to engage the cops in his current predicament. They would want to take him to their offices for questioning and would keep him occupied for hours. They’d want him to stay in town so he’d be easily located for further questioning. He could be detained for days, and he felt in his bones, in the core of the fabric of his soul, that staying in one spot, easy to locate, would be disastrous.
When the most opportune moment came, Peter swung out from behind the shelves and caught Baldy by surprise. He brought his elbows down on the big man’s arms, knocking the handgun loose and sending it sliding across the tiled floor and under the boxy stainless steel commercial oven.
Baldy reacted quickly, shoving his elbow toward Peter’s abdomen, but Peter anticipated the attack and sidestepped, simultaneously landing a forearm across his rival’s face, catching him across the jaw and cheekbone. The bone-to-bone contact was solid, and Baldy staggered back but quickly regained his bearings. Setting his feet in a wide stance, he opened his powerful hands, forming them into claws, chuffed like an annoyed bear, and charged at Peter. The sheer size of the man was enough to intimidate even the most fearsome professional wrestler. He had Peter by at least forty pounds, most of that muscle. He was nimble for his size, too, and well-trained. Not clumsy and lumbering like most men carrying his bulk.
Baldy came at Peter swinging. Each jab and punch had a precision to it that spoke of years of training and use. But Peter blocked nearly every blow and managed to get a few in himself, landing them to Baldy’s face, neck, and upper chest. But the big man was resilient and absorbed each impact like he was made of rock.
The fight took them across the kitchen to the prep area, where Baldy reached for and grabbed a utility knife. He squared up, slightly crouched, feet wide, and sneered at Peter. A trickle of blood ran from one nostril to his upper lip, and he had a small cut over his right eye that leaked blood as well. “I don’t want to use this, Patrick.”
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