If I do my job right, there simply won’t be a confirmation hearing.
Getting to my feet, I move among the shadows at the edge of the tree line, keeping an eye on the grounds. When I get to a position where I can see the front of the mansion, I hunker down behind a bush and raise the binoculars to my eyes.
“Gotcha.”
Eight men by my count are clustered around two black SUVs on the front drive talking. Probably the shift change debrief and a bit of bullshit among the guys. They’re all wearing identical black suits and ties and are all carrying what look like Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns. Somehow, I know it’s the weapon favored by the Secret Service—but I also know they have begun phasing it out and replacing it with the SR-16.
I have no idea where that knowledge came from. It just popped into my mind like the answer to a particularly obscure trivia question. Maybe I should try out for Jeopardy.
They could be Secret Service, or they could be a private security company. No way to know for sure. And ultimately, it doesn’t matter anyway. If I’m going to get to the judge, they’ll have to be neutralized.
I watch as a group of four split off and climb into one of the SUVs. A couple of moments later, it speeds off, leaving the second group at the estate. I see one of the remaining guards—an older man with hair that’s mostly gone gray—speaking as the other three look on intently. Orders issued, the group splits apart and begins to walk the grounds.
“Security detail of four,” I note.
I check the time and jot it all down in a small notebook. Notes made, I slip the notebook back into the pack and scan the grounds again, looking for any bodyguards I’d previously missed. But I see nothing.
I stay in the woods, moving from bush to tree for the next couple of hours. I move swiftly and silently, taking photos of the grounds and making notes of what I see. I’ll have to make a few more trips out here at different times of the day. I want to see if the number of guards change, and to see if I can get a feel for their patrol circuits. The more information I have, the better. I don’t want any nasty surprises on the night I do this.
I realize then that I am and always have been a meticulous planner. I see all of the angles, find the weak points, and plan for all contingencies. I’m type-A about an op. I know it’s part of my nature as sure as I know the sky is blue. It’s who I am.
Once the morning mist has long faded and the day shifts into afternoon, I melt back into the woods. I’ve got all the information I’m going to be able to squeeze out of today, so I decide to pack it in and call it a day.
Chapter Eleven
I pull into the Lobster Pot’s parking lot for the second day in a row. I have to admit; the sandwich was pretty damn good. Good enough to make me come back for another one anyway.
Or maybe you’re here to see if the blonde and her abuser are here again. Maybe you want to play the white knight. Maybe you just want to hurt somebody.
It’s a fair question. Unfortunately, it’s not one I have an answer to. But given that neither the damsel in distress nor her ham-fisted boyfriend are in the parking lot, I’m just going to go with the idea that I really enjoy the lobster rolls.
“Back again, huh?” beams the woman behind the counter—the one who served me yesterday.
I give her a grin. “Best lobster rolls in Maine,” I reply. “Hard to say no to them.”
“That’s what we like to hear.”
I order the same thing I had yesterday but order a second one to take back to my room for later. I pull out my wallet, but the woman waves me off.
“It’s on the house today,” she tells me. “On account of what you did for Hope yesterday. I seen what you did.”
I give her a blank stare, and she smiles at me. I don’t have to ask her what she’s talking about. She saw that whole episode in the parking lot yesterday. Great. So much for keeping a low profile.
“Really, I appreciate it, but it’s not necessary,” I say.
She waves me off. “Nope. I insist. Hope’s my cousin. I been tryin’ to get her to leave that walking shitstain, Tommy, for years now,” she explains. “I was glad to see him get put in his place. So thank you for that.”
Seeing that she’s not going to budge, I slip my wallet back into my pocket and give her a small smile and a nod.
“Thank you very much,” I say. “Really, it was nothing though.”
She smiles softly. “Lots of people ‘round here wanted to see Tommy taken down a few pegs for a long time,” she says. “But ain’t nobody ever had the balls to do it. Not ‘til now.”
I chuckle. “Well, I’m glad to have done a community service.”
She slides my tray across the counter to me with a smile. I pick it up and return her smile.
“Well, thank you…” I cut a quick glance at her nametag. “…Sara. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime.”
I carry my tray out to the table I sat at last night and take a seat. The deck is only about half full of people eating and chatting away. I take a big bite of the lobster roll and chew as I think about what I learned out on recon today. Which isn’t much. I’ll know more once I scout the place a few more times and have a better frame of reference for the security situation out there.
“Excuse me?”
Her voice is soft and breathy and pulls me out of my head. I look up and see the sandy blonde—Hope—standing in front of me. Her sudden appearance here makes me wonder if Sara, the woman inside, had tipped her off that I was here.
“Hi,” I greet her.
She points to the chair across the table from me. “M—may I?”
“Of course,” I tell her. “Please.”
She pulls the chair out and quickly sits down, folding her hands in her lap. She wrings her hands and looks down at them, radiating nervousness. I push the wrapped lobster roll over to her.
“Would you like something to eat?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, thank you.”
We sit in silence for a long few moments. I watch her as I take another bite of my sandwich. I can tell she’s here for a reason. I’m not sure what that reason might be, though.
“Are you okay, Hope?”
She looks at me, startled that I know her name. Her eyes are wide, her lower lip trembles, and she looks like a deer right before they bolt.
“Sara—your cousin—she told me. Gave me a free sandwich too,” I affect a chuckle, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible.
“W—what’s your name?” she asks timidly.
“Alec Marsh,” I say, not liking the feel of it in my mouth. “But most people just call me Echo.”
“Echo?”
“Yeah—old nickname. From the service.”
It’s all I can think to tell her, not knowing if it’s even true. Sure, High Priestess Delta said it’s true, but that doesn’t necessarily make it so. I can’t trust her any further than I can spit at this point. But I’ve got nothing else to go on, so when life hands you lemons and all that.
A flicker of a smile touches Hope’s lips, and she quickly looks away. Fear is wafting off her in clouds I can practically see. She’s not sporting any new bruises—which is good. At least, none that I can see. But I also know that some wounds aren’t visible to the naked eye.
“How long has it been happening?” I ask.
She looks away, and I can see a myriad of emotions crossing her face. I don’t need to tell her what I’m talking about. I can see in her face that she knows. She’s quiet for a couple of moments before she raises her head and looks at me. Rather than the scared rabbit though, in her eyes, I see a grim determination. For the first time since I laid eyes on her, I see a confidence I never would have associated with her.
“We’ve been together for years. Since high school,” she says. “It started about a year after we got together.”
“Why do you stay?” I ask. “Why do you expose your daughter to that?”
I see the guilt cross her face, and she looks away aga
in, that grim determination I saw a moment ago melting away.
“S—sometimes things are good,” she stammers, her voice little more than a whisper. “Sometimes he’s kind. He can be a good man. A good dad. He doesn’t always…”
Her voice trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish the sentence. I know what she’s talking about.
“But it always ends up in the same place,” I say. “Doesn’t it?”
She nods slowly, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Always. Usually worse,” she replies softly. “I keep hoping he’ll change. Sometimes I convince myself he will…”
“But he never does.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
Part of me flares up in rage at Tommy, and in despair for Hope. This can’t be the life she wants for herself. For her daughter. But if she is scared and unable to get away, what can she do?
I was lucky enough to be given a second chance. To have escaped with my life intact after I was betrayed and broken within an inch of my life. Not everyone has that luxury.
“I’m sorry,” is all I can think to say. “Do you have any way of…” I pause for a moment, trying to think of how to phrase it, “getting out?”
Her face flushes crimson, and the tears flow faster. She shakes his head, seemingly unable to form the words. Neither of us says anything for a long while, but I see something else crossing her face. It’s something hard. Something bitter. Something dark and angry.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asks, her voice soft but firm. “I mean, I’ve never seen somebody handle Tommy like that.”
“I was in the service,” I reply.
I don’t know if it’s technically true if that’s where I learned my combat skills. Not with absolute certainty. For all I know, I took martial arts classes and was a black belt before I enlisted in the Army. But it seems like a safe enough bet.
She nods and gnaws on her bottom lip, uncertainty in her face. She looks around the deck nervously, but nobody is paying us the least bit of attention. She leans across the table, her gaze locked onto mine intently.
“I need to ask you something,” she whispers.
“Sure, what is it?”
A small frown crosses her face. “I just—please don’t think I’m evil or…”
Her voice trails off, and she looks away. I can see the deep shame in her eyes. It blends with the years of pain and torment. The abuse and the rage. It all combines to create something that’s not entirely human. I can’t say that I blame her.
Having gone through what she has, the years of being beaten on and torn down mentally and emotionally—it takes a toll. It can turn somebody into something they’re not. Something altogether darker.
“I won’t think you’re evil,” I assure her.
Her wavering smile says she isn’t entirely sure about that. But the gleam in her eye tells me she’s committed to this path and will see it through, come hell or high water.
She cuts a quick glance around again, then leans even further over the table and pitches her voice lower.
“I—I want you to kill him for me,” she whispers, then immediately covers her mouth, trying to hold back tears. Unsuccessfully. “I know I got no right to ask this of you, and I know how this sounds, but he’s a monster, Echo. I don’t have the strength to do it myself.”
The request gives me a moment’s pause. How bad must things be for this woman that she would ask a complete stranger to kill her boyfriend for her?
“I know he’s a monster, Hope. I just—I’m not a killer,” I tell her.
Aren’t you, though? Isn’t that what you built an entire career on—killing? Isn’t there a stack of bodies as high as Everest with your name on them? Isn’t that why you’re here in the first place?
I ignore the voice of the mystery woman and clear my throat. Hope is staring at me, her face filled with shame, but her eyes still holding a small flicker of hope—hope that I’ll do what she wants me to do.
“I wouldn’t ask you to do something like this,” she says. “Not if I had another choice. I—I can pay you. It ain’t much, but I can get more if you need.”
It’s then I get the feeling that there’s more going on here than Hope is letting on. There’s something dark, something sinister lurking just below the surface, like some monstrous leviathan threatening to swallow her whole. I can’t see what it is, it remains opaque, but it’s there all the same. I can see the muddled shape of it moving below the surface.
“What’s going on, Hope?” I ask. “I mean, what’s really going on?”
Her expression darkens, and she looks away. I can see that whatever it is, it’s enormous. It’s ripping Hope’s soul to pieces. As tears roll down her face and her cheeks flush, I feel a thin, sharp needle of guilt pierce my heart.
But just as quickly, she closes herself down. Her tears stop flowing, and her face becomes unreadable. It’s a carefully practiced expression of neutrality that she hides behind like a mask. I imagine having somebody like Tommy in her life has given her lots of practice at that.
“Nothing. It’s nothing. I—I’m sorry I asked something so inappropriate of you,” she stammers. “I shouldn’t have dropped that in your lap. It ain’t your concern. I’m sorry.”
Before I can stop her, she gets to her feet and dashes back through the restaurant, leaving me behind with nothing but questions and concerns for her well-being.
Chapter Twelve
I spent a good portion of the afternoon surveilling the Blankenship estate, watching the comings and goings of his staff as well as the movements of his security staff. The thing that troubles me is that I didn’t pick up on any patterns with the security staff. They stagger their rotations and don’t seem to follow a discernible path as they walk around the grounds.
Not having a pattern or any sort of predictability only makes it that much harder to get across the rear grounds and to the house, which will be my path of approach. I did find a deep, murky pond hidden among the thick forest trees though. That might prove useful.
I stop off at the Lobster Pot for the third day in a row. If I’m being honest with myself, it’s as much for the food as it is hoping to see if Hope is there. She’s not. And neither is her cousin Sara. So I content myself with the same order as yesterday—including the one for the road. It turned out to be a pretty good midnight snack.
As I’m sitting at the table chewing on my lobster roll, a shadow falls over me. I look up and see a large man, backlit by the sun, so all I see is a silhouette. He’s tall and thick through the shoulders and chest, but that’s all I can tell.
He steps around the table and takes the seat across from me. The man has deep lines etched into his face and a big, bushy, Wilford Brimley-esque mustache. He takes his ranger hat off and sets it down on the table, showing me salt and pepper colored hair as he gives me a tight smile.
“Toby Cedars,” he introduces himself. “Sheriff Toby Cedars.”
As if I couldn’t tell by the hat and the big gold star pinned to his chest. His uniform is khaki colored, with dark brown epaulettes and pocket flaps. It’s very crisp and looks like it’s been starched to hell and back. The man strikes me as a straight shooter, no-nonsense kind of guy. He is the epitome of the small-town sheriff. All that’s missing is the matchstick sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
“Nice to meet you, Sheriff,” I reply, wiping my hands and mouth with a paper napkin. “What can I do for you?”
“New in town, huh?”
A small grin quirks a corner of my mouth upward. “I get the feeling you already know I am,” I say. “Unless Auburn has a thriving underground tourist trade, I don’t know about.”
He frowns, obviously not interested in friendly banter. Like I said, a straight-shooting, no-nonsense kind of guy. I take a drink of my soda and clear my throat.
“So, you plannin’ on stayin’ a while?” he asks.
I shrug. “Just passing through, Sheriff.”
“Uh huh,” he muses, his lips a
tight line. “How long you think it’s gonna take you to pass through?”
I give him another shrug. “Not sure. The hiking is too good here,” I offer. “It’s beautiful land. I thought I might enjoy it for another week or so.”
“Got a name?”
“Alec Marsh. But you can call me Echo,” I say. He raises an eyebrow at me. “Green Berets. The nickname stuck.”
I play the vet card, hoping to curry a little goodwill with the man. He looks wholly unimpressed. He just stares at me like I’m a particularly nasty piece of bird shit on his windshield. He’s got the tough as nails small town cop act down pat; I’ll give him that.
“I’m sorry, have I done something wrong here, Sheriff?”
“You tell me. Have you?”
I chuckle and shake my head. “You make all newcomers feel this welcome in your town?”
He shrugs his thick shoulders. “I make a point of saying hello to folks who come into town and immediately kick a hornet’s nest,” he says. “Kinda gets things off on the wrong foot, y’know?”
I pop a fry into my mouth and chew as I stare at him. “And what’s this hornet’s nest I allegedly kicked?”
“Seems you had a run-in with a friend of mine the other day,” he responds. “Says it was a less than cordial meeting.”
A wry smile touches my lips. “Yeah, I suppose you could say that,” I reply. “But then, I tend to be a bit less than cordial when I see a man laying hands on a woman.”
“Ain’t the way he tells it.”
“I’m sure it’s not,” I fire back.
“Did you actually see Mr. Elkins strike Ms. Chandler?” he asks.
“I saw him dragging her through the parking lot like a rag doll.”
“Well, that ain’t quite the same as seein’ him wailin’ on her now, is it?”
I throw another fry into my mouth and chew, never taking my eyes off the big bear of a Sheriff. His glare is icy—like a gunslinger staring down the bad guy in the middle of the road at high noon. I know he thinks it’s supposed to intimidate me, but all it does is add to the caricature of the man.
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