The Compound: A Thriller

by Ben Follows

  “Please,” said the chief. “Everyone have a seat and we can discuss why we’re here. Obrasey, thank you very much for coming on such short notice. We have a lot to discuss.”

  The FBI agents took their seats, and Obrasey went into the bullpen to pull in a chair, ignoring the curious glances she received from the rest of the officers. Once she was seated, Special Agent Emerson dove right in. He had the deep, melodic voice of an opera singer.

  “Some of the details I’m unable to share with you, Officer Obrasey, but the gist is this. You have heard the story of Frank Frederickson and his disappearance.”

  Obrasey nodded. She was beginning to think that it was too late to check if they were really FBI agents.

  “Well, the man you know as Frank Frederickson is not Frank Frederickson.” Emerson passed a sheet of paper to Obrasey. It was a wanted poster from a few years earlier. “He’s a crime lord, specializing in the organization of assassinations. We thought he had died a few years ago due to an internal rebellion.”

  Obrasey looked over the sheet, not quite processing what they had said. “That’s just about the time he arrived in Crescent Point.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How is this possible?”

  “That’s what we need to figure out.”

  Special Agent Thompson took over. “We were already investigating the case when we received an anonymous tip about someone connected to Frank Frederickson. The tip put us on the trail of someone named Jake Lavelle.”

  Thompson slid an FBI profile on Jake Lavelle across the table. The first thing that she noticed was the lack of information on it. Any numbers, from birthdates to ages, were best guesses.

  “We hope you don’t mind, Chief,” said Emerson, “but we accessed your database and took the liberty of reading through your report. Jake Lavelle’s name came up on our search, but there was only one previous encounter with law enforcement: two nights ago in the cells of this station. So we checked out the club he stated he was at the previous night and found the same thing you found, Officer Obrasey. That he wasn’t there. But more importantly, that there were people there trying to make us think he was. Those two men you told the chief about in your phone call were arrested and brought to the Boston FBI office for questioning.”

  “What did you get out of them?”

  Emerson and Thompson glanced at one another. Thompson answered, avoiding Obrasey’s eyes. “They were both found dead in their cells this morning, apparently poisoned. We believe it was coordinated and planned, since they were both missing the same tooth that they hadn’t been missing the previous day.”

  “They killed themselves?”

  “That’s the way it seems to be, ma’am.”

  Obrasey paused for a moment. “Why?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Jake…” Obrasey trailed off. “ I thought something was wrong.” Her doubt of their authenticity was vanishing. In the same way that Keith had known she was the real deal, these two men were either Oscar-worthy actors or what they said they were.

  “Officer Obrasey,” said Emerson, leaning in and putting his elbows on his knees. “The chief told us you were already suspicious about Jake Lavelle. We need to know everything you know about Jake Lavelle and Frank Frederickson.”

  “You said Frank was an coordinator of assassins?”

  “Yes, ma’am, one of the most dangerous murder middlemen—as we’ve come to call him and his ilk—in the country. He allegedly died a few years, and his case file was shut. But if he’s alive, it raises a hell of a lot of questions.”

  Obrasey swallowed, feeling the same overwhelming stress she’d felt on the shoulder of the highway the previous night. She took a few deep breaths before asking for their identification and looking over it as well as she could. She didn’t know what an FBI identification looked like, but theirs looked professional. She decided she would call the FBI Boston offices later.

  “You can call the FBI Boston office if it will help,” said Emerson.

  “No, I believe you,” she said, handing them back.

  “I insist, call them.” Emerson took the phone off the chief’s desk and held it out to Obrasey. “You don’t trust us, I get that. I’ll even dial the number for you.”

  He might have been bluffing, and Obrasey hesitated for a moment before calling his hypothetical bluff. She grabbed the phone and pulled it toward her, dialing directory assistance and asking for the FBI Boston offices herself. When she mentioned Emerson and Thompson, she was transferred to a woman named Kathryn Landy, who claimed to be the head of the Boston FBI office. They spoke for a few minutes, and Landy invited Obrasey to visit the FBI offices if she ever had any more questions. Obrasey thanked her and hung up.

  Emerson raised an eyebrow.

  Without offering an explanation, Obrasey dove into what she knew about Jake Lavelle and Frank Frederickson. She knew it was mostly her own opinions, such as the devotion Frank had for his family. She described Jake’s short hesitation when she had asked about Frank. Then she spoke about her search at the club the previous night.

  “That’s some damn fine police work,” said Emerson when she finished. “In most other cases you would have unearthed some pretty damning evidence by now. What about you, Chief? Anything to add?”

  The chief rubbed his knuckle beneath his eye. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s a bit embarrassing.”

  “As long as you aren’t an accomplice, then it’s all right,” said Emerson.

  The chief nodded. “I drove Jake to the Crescent Point Bar last night. We talked about a lot of things. Well, mostly I talked about Crescent Point to him. I may have told him about Zach.”

  Obrasey gave the chief a death glare.

  “Zach?” said Thompson.

  “My fiancé,” said Obrasey. “He was a firefighter until a few months ago when he shattered his leg in a dozen spots and messed up his lungs jumping out of a burning house's second-story window to save some kids.”

  Emerson nodded. “Sounds like a good man.”

  “A great man.” Obrasey jerked her head up. “There was a big brawl at the pub last night. Was Jake involved in that at all?”

  The chief paused. “I left before that. Honestly, I completely forgot about him after I told Karen not to give him any alcoholic beverages. He seemed okay. He mentioned he was staying at the Bishop’s Inn up near the beach.”

  Thompson made some notes. “Karen is a bartender?”

  “Yes. Karen Holmes.”

  “And the address of the Bishop’s Inn?”

  The chief told him. “You might also want to check in with Harold McMann. He’s Jake’s Uncle who picked him up from prison. ”

  “You mean he claims Harold is his uncle,” said Emerson, taking down the notes. “We’ll check him out too.”

  “I guess his sentencing hearing for drunk driving doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “I’ll get you the files on him.”

  “Thank you. Officer Obrasey,” said Thompson as he finished jotting down the notes, “we’ve requested you work with us during our investigation. If that’s okay with you? This is still your case.”

  Obrasey smirked, realizing the chief had failed to mention his refusal to let her pursue this case. She glanced sideways at him then back to the agents. “I would be honored.”

  “Excellent,” said Thompson, standing in unison with his partner. “I’d like to start immediately. The government will pay your overtime while you’re working with us. I think we should start by checking out his hotel. Then we’ll check out Karen Holmes. Obrasey, we’ll need you to give us directions. Emerson has an awful sense of direction. We missed the station a couple times on the way here.”

  Emerson just scowled and left the office.

  Thompson shrugged, smiling mischievously. They followed Emerson out of the police station. Obrasey could feel her heartbeat in her throat as she walked through the gathered crowd of officers and out to the agents�
�� car.

  She climbed into the car and they exited the parking lot.

  Chapter 15

  Jake checked himself out in the mirror of his bathroom, adjusting his black suit jacket as he did so. He tested the jacket both opened and closed and decided to go for the casual look, leaning back with his hands in his pockets. He had gotten the suit from the suitcase, which had been returned to the closet.

  He was a little uncomfortable. He wasn't used to dressing in suits, but he wanted to look good for Karen. He was nervous and felt like he was sweating through the suit. The only comfort came from the guns and knives, still cold against his skin, concealed beneath his clothing.

  He straightened his collar for the fifth time before exiting the room and walking out to the road. He walked past the reception. Agatha was lounging against the counter, talking to someone Jake couldn’t see.

  He walked toward the beach. George’s Steakhouse was on the beach and advertised that it had served some of the biggest celebrities ever to visit Crescent Point, none of whom Jake had ever heard of. He was far from up to date on current pop culture, but still.

  The streets were filling up slowly but surely with tourists. Just as Carl had predicted, the main drag was occupied by a steady trickle of newcomers who would come up the main drag, turn into one of the empty cottages, and unpack their belongings before heading to the beach. It was becoming more crowded. Many of the stores were overwhelmed, resulting in long lines and the occasional teenager sneaking out the door with unpaid merchandise under his arm.

  Yet the town still felt empty. It felt like just a few more people would make it something special. It was just crowded enough that Jake didn’t realize he was being followed until he was almost halfway to the beach.

  He paused, listening to the steady rhythm of footsteps behind him. The moment he stopped, the footsteps stopped as well. When Jake looked back over his shoulder, he couldn’t pick anyone suspicious out of the crowd. Children and parents walked in and out of stores on both sides of the street. Any one of the people standing there could be his pursuer, or perhaps he wasn’t being pursued at all. Maybe he was just being paranoid.

  With that thought, he continued walking, and the footsteps resumed their steady pace, almost impossible to distinguish among the crowd. But Jake had been trained to listen for the anomalies of a certain person’s footsteps, the slight differences between the strength of their legs, the way the balls of their feet connected with the ground and then rolled down to their ankle, how their footwear connected with the ground.

  He was being followed, but he couldn’t give his pursuer any indication he knew.

  The footsteps stopped, and Jake focused, trying to trace where they’d gone. After a few moments, he breathed a sigh of relief, thinking there would be no issues with his date with Karen. She would be waiting for him at the restaurant, dressed up and ready to have a great evening.

  A hand grabbed his wrist and jerked him into an alleyway. Stunned he hadn’t felt or heard the approach, he was unable to react. By the time he caught up with what was happening, a small knife was pushed against his throat, straining the skin. His eyes went wide, and he gasped for breath.

  He looked up at the person holding the knife to his throat and breathed a strained sigh of relief.

  “Sarah?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

  The woman holding a knife to his throat smiled. “Long time no see, Jake.”

  Jake breathed a sigh of relief. He knew Sarah; he knew her footsteps. Hers were softer and more balanced between both legs and between ball and foot. She was one of the only truly ambidextrous people Jake had ever met. She hadn’t been his pursuer. She could only be there to help him, although the knife she held pressed against his throat wasn’t helping her case.

  “Don’t make a sound,” said Sarah. She looked over her shoulder. “He’s still here somewhere.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy following you. Don’t tell me you didn’t hear him? Have you slipped up that much?” She smirked. “Nice suit, by the way. On your way to a quarterly performance review?”

  “Mind taking the knife away, Sarah? I can’t breathe.”

  Sarah scowled but retracted the knife and stepped back, giving Jake got his first look at the woman who had been like an older sister to him at the academy. She was the perfect agent for The Compound, able to change things about her appearance at a moment’s notice. She had features of a dozen different races and with the help of varying hairstyles and makeup could easily pass as Native American, White, South Asian, or light-skinned African-American. She had never known her parents—like everyone at The Compound—and had never bothered to do a test of her genetics. She didn't want to know who her ancestors were. It didn't matter.

  Instead, she’d openly embraced the label of "mutt" that had been applied to her. She’d been the senior student in charge of Jake and Doug’s floor and had spent a lot of time in their room, as friends or family more than anything else. Doug had developed a strong crush on her over time and had told Jake many times about his farfetched dreams of their future together. Those dreams had lasted right up to graduation a few weeks earlier.

  “Come with me,” said Sarah, who at present looked Native American, perhaps with a bit of European ancestry. Her short black hair was just long enough to hide her ears. “We need to get out of here.”

  She turned to go.

  “Wait, Sarah,” said Jake. “I have to let my date know that I won’t be able to make it.”

  Sarah stared at him. “You really are a rookie, aren’t you, Jake? I thought Harold was joking when he told me you were doing your test. This has gotten far beyond anything you should be doing at this stage in your career."

  Jake glanced back and forth. “It’ll be like ten minutes to tell her I need to reschedule. I never got her number. And then we need to swing by the Bishop’s Inn to get my things. The suitcase is still there.”

  Sarah walked back and slapped him across the face as hard as she could, leaving a red imprint on Jake’s cheek. During his entire time he had known her, she’d never so much as hinted she would hit someone, despite everyone knowing she could. He turned back to her, shocked and touching his face.

  “Stop acting like an idiot,” she said. “This is so much more complicated than any certification test should be. Nate and Oliver are dead trying to cover for your cover story. Do you understand what that means? This is a live fucking case. Now get your head out of your asshole, get your shit together, and come with me. We’re going to Harold’s house to reevaluate this bullshit. Your room and your stupid date are compromised. They have more stuff for you at Harold’s house.”

  Sarah turned, cursed under her breath, and walked deeper into the alleyway, where there was an entrance to another street. Jake rubbed his cheek and followed her, the information that Nate and Oliver were dead ringing in his head. He didn’t know who they were, but he knew they were members of The Compound. If they had been forced to retire themselves, they had committed the greatest shame that could be conferred on a graduate from the academy. Ending up in a situation where the only option was to end it yourself was shameful, embarrassing, and would provide them no accolades. Their names would remain on the graduation plaque from the year they graduated, but the accolades beside their name would be removed. The differences in accolades would be evident in comparison to the greats like Harold himself, who had so many accolades that they had given him his own plaque separate from his graduation plaque. Although it wouldn’t say why they had no accolades, everyone would know.

  He followed Sarah, keeping his ears peeled for anything suspicious. He heard nothing. When he came out the far side, he saw her climbing into a silver sedan. She waved to him and then climbed in, slamming the door behind her. Jake jogged over, restricted by the suit; he now felt extremely self-conscious in it. He opened the door and climbed in.

  Before he had finished closing the door, Sarah hit the gas and swerved out onto the road at top speed.
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br />   She had an amazing sense for when cops were nearby and would slam on the brakes just as they came across their path. She flipped the bird to more than a few drivers who were in her way and swore at drivers who stopped at red lights. Within less than fifteen minutes, during which somehow they hadn’t been pulled over—Jake was clinging to the door handle so tightly, his fingers had started losing circulation—they exited the town of Crescent Point and turned onto an unmarked dirt road. A sole farmhouse stood in the distance. A small column of smoke came out of the chimney.

  There was a vibration in Jake’s pocket, and he pulled out his phone. There was a notification that the silent alarm in his room had been tripped. The room was compromised. He cursed, and Sarah gave him an “I told you so” glance, but she said nothing as they drove toward the farmhouse.

  “I have a video feed uploaded to the server,” Jake said.

  They turned right down a long dirt driveway that led to the house.

  Jake stepped out of the car and followed Sarah to the front door. She knocked once and it opened. Harold stood in the doorway.

  He didn’t have the same joyous attitude he’d shown before. He looked serious, even scared. “Come inside.”

  Jake and Sarah stepped inside. Jake was surprised by its simplicity.

  Harold looked at both of them. “Tea, coffee, juice, food?”

  They both turned it down.

  “All right. Jake, there’s clothing for you in the second bedroom on the right. Sarah, is there anything the director said that isn’t suitable for Jake’s ears?”

  Jake spun around from the hallway. “You spoke to the director?”

  “I did,” said Sarah, falling into the brown leather couch, “I spoke to him. He wants Jake involved. Get changed and get your ass back here.”

  Jake hesitated in the hallway. “I have a video feed of the motel room—”

  “Get changed,” said Harold, “and then get it set up.”

  Jake nodded, stepping into the room Harold had indicated and finding clothes of every style that fit him ready and waiting. He chose a plain white t-shirt and jeans. He stepped into the adjacent bathroom and splashed his face, trying to clear his thoughts of the missed date with Karen. He knew the rules as well as any of them, and he knew that being willing to drop everything at a moment’s notice was a key mantra of The Compound.