Killer Within

by Jeff Gunhus

  “Like I said, Craig. Fuck off, will you?”

  She said it loud enough that a few people around her cocked their heads, eavesdropping but trying to be discreet. The words came out trembling, but Gerty read them the wrong way. He mistook the rage in her voice for fear. Sensing what he thought was weakness, he pushed in even closer.

  “You know, plebe, you were one hot little number back in the day.”

  Allison clenched her hands together.

  “Do you still have a tight little ass on you?”

  She looked away. “Stop it,” she hissed, barely in control.

  “What say I give you another chance, plebe?”

  He was leaning into her now, she could smell cheap, musky cologne mixed with boozy breath. She turned away from it. Her throat constricted and she had to gasp for air, as if Gerty that close to her had somehow blocked her airstream.

  “I’ll give it to you real good this time, plebe.”

  Allison dragged the back of her hand across her forehead and wiped away a layer of cold sweat. The walls around her throbbed, bending in and out like giant bellows at a furnace. And the heat. The air was suddenly impossibly thick. The images around her began to quiver as if she was looking through heat distortion off a steaming highway. She was suddenly very conscious of the weight of the gun holster wrapped around her ankle.

  “Tell me something, plebe . . .”

  He was so close now that his tongue, his disgusting, slimy, down-her-throat tongue was almost flicking into her ear. Her brain screamed for her to jerk away, but she was frozen, no longer in control right when it counted most.

  She hardly noticed her right hand creeping down the outside of her thigh. Working down toward the ankle.

  “I want you to tell me the truth . . .”

  There was a wet sound, him licking his lips.

  “. . . are you still a screamer? Cuz I still love that shit.”

  He slid a hand across her lower back.

  The break in her thoughts came with its own soundtrack. There was an actual crumph, like the distant sound heard on a clear mountain day, a dam giving way a quarter mile upstream, the kind of noise where you knew that there was no use running because what was coming next was big and impossible to escape. There was a second of silence before the voices in her head poured out like a flood of hate.

  Kill the mother fucker. Kill him.

  Allison pivoted on the bar stool, knocking Gerty’s arm off her body. Gerty, both surprised and drunk, fell backward. If not for the wall of people behind him, he would have gone to the ground.

  In the few seconds he took to stagger to his feet, Allison was off the stool, down on one knee and going for her gun.

  Son of a bitch. Let’s end this right now.

  Then there was pressure on her forearm, a claw that dug into her flesh and yanked her up off the ground. She vainly made a last grasp for her gun but only got a fistful of her pant leg.

  She pulled back, but the claw wasn’t letting go.

  Allison looked up.

  The energy immediately drained out of her body, and she stopped struggling. She didn’t say anything either. There was no need.

  Special Agent Scott Hansford pulled her gently toward the door.

  “Move,” he said under his breath.

  “Scott, you don’t need to—”

  “Now, McNeil,” he said.

  Allison did as she was told. Behind her she heard Gerty’s voice, but she didn’t bother to turn around. Scott said, “Go get another beer, buddy; fun’s over.” The tone of voice, strict and disciplined, must have found purchase on Gerty’s military mind, because she didn’t hear a response to it.

  She burst through the doors into the humid night air, finally shaking off the hand clutching her elbow. She didn’t turn to look at him, but she didn’t walk away either. She knew the time for walking away had passed.

  “My car’s parked right over here,” Scott said. “Get in; I’m driving.”

  Allison couldn’t even bring herself to nod. She just went toward the car the man had pointed to, her muscles burning from the small effort it took just to keep herself upright. The fresh air felt good at first, and the quiet of City Dock compared to the constant roar in the bar, but now her stomach started to tumble over itself.

  She leaned over and threw up into the gutter. Her abdomen retched until the muscles cramped into tight little clusters and only thin lines of stomach acid came from her mouth.

  I was going to kill him.

  The thought came through clearly as she stood in the street, hacking and gagging.

  Scott waited beside her, neither patient nor impatient, just there. When she was finished, he held out a cloth handkerchief. Allison took it and wiped her mouth.

  “Thanks, Scott. Thanks for being there.”

  Scott looked unimpressed by the gesture. He held out his hand. “Let me have it,” he said.

  Allison hesitated but offered him back his handkerchief. Scott swatted it away, his face reddening with anger.

  “Goddammit, McNeil. You know what I’m talking about.”

  She actually didn’t know what he was talking about, her mind still playing catch-up, the alcohol and adrenaline mix adding to her disorientation.

  Scott, taking this as just one more insult, nodded to her ankle.

  She immediately understood. She hesitated but quickly gave in. Reaching down unsteadily to her ankle holster, she removed her gun and handed it to him. He checked the safety and slid it into his pocket.

  “You want this too?” she asked. She pulled out a bifold leather wallet from her purse and flipped it open. It was an ID. The picture on it showed her with hair pulled back, a serious expression on her face. But it wasn’t a driver’s license. It was her most prized possession and invested her with the title that meant more to her than anything.

  Special Agent Allison McNeil.

  The letters “FBI” were emblazoned in bold, dark blue letters above her name, dominating the credentials the same way the Bureau dominated her life.

  Scott shook his head. “Put that away. What do you think this is, the old West? That turning in your gun and badge will make it all go away?”

  “C’mon, Scott.”

  “C’mon, Scott?” He leaned in close to her. “You’ve been performing unsanctioned surveillance on a person of interest in an ongoing investigation. That’s an obstruction charge right there. Let alone the dozens of ethical issues with the whole thing. Then I just witnessed you about to pull a gun in a bar on a civilian.”

  “He would have deserved it,” Allison said, trying to sound surer of herself than she felt.

  “Jesus, McNeil,” Scott shook his head and pointed to her credentials. “Keep them. I’m pretty certain someone will be taking them from you soon enough.”

  He took her by the arm again and directed her to the passenger side door of a black sedan. She let him open the door and guide her inside, covering her head with his hand as she got in, like she was a perp. Before he closed the door, Allison reached out and got his attention.

  “What I said before, I meant it,” she said. “Thank you for stopping me.”

  Scott was about to say something but apparently decided against it. He closed the door and hustled around to the other side of the car.

  Allison had seen the look on his face, though, and intuited what he had wanted to say.

  You fucked up, Allison, old girl. Better you than me, though, if you know what I mean.

  Yes, she had screwed up, and her little chaperone wasn’t about to cut her a break. And he shouldn’t either. She had just about shot a civilian in the middle of a crowded bar.

  A shudder passed through her, and a more than normal amount of saliva filled her mouth again. She swallowed hard.

  She had a long drive ahead of her, at the end of which there woul
d be hell to pay. She closed her eyes and found herself wishing she had a few pills with her to make the world go away.

  CHAPTER 23

  Charlie came through the doors from McGarvey’s just as the sedan pulled away. Chatting up one of the new waitresses Mick had hired, he’d missed all the action with the guy who messed with Allison. Stan filled him in, though, making it clear that he hadn’t seen any of it himself or he would have come across the bar and throttled the bastard. Stan didn’t know the man Allison had left with, but she had seemed to know him well enough.

  Charlie peered through the darkness, trying to get a look at the man, but got nothing. The car had to stop for an elderly couple taking their own sweet time to cross the street, and that gave Charlie the chance he needed to check out the license plate. He said the tag numbers and letters out loud to himself until he fished a pen out of his pocket and scribbled them down on his cast.

  He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and scrolled down to find the new number he had stored there only a couple of days earlier.

  The person on the other end of the line picked up immediately. Charlie explained what had happened in the bar.

  “I told you to watch her. Where were you when this man came and got her? How could this happen without you seeing who it was?”

  “Hey, I had to take a leak, man. What do you expect?”

  The cold silence on the phone told Charlie that the man expected more. Much more.

  “But I did get the license number,” Charlie offered nervously.

  “Good. Good boy. What is it?”

  Charlie read the license number off his cast, wondering why his voice was trembling. He used a pen to scratch over the number. If he saw Allison again, he didn’t want her seeing it. The man asked if there was anything else, then told Charlie to find out more about the man Allison was talking to before she left. The one that upset her. Without saying good-bye, the man hung up the phone.

  Charlie hung up and felt a little queasy about what he had just done. His little undercover snooping had sounded like fun at first, but now he felt kind of ashamed. But, he figured, Allison would move on soon and forget about him all together. She made her feelings very plain on the beach that day, right?

  Besides, he needed the money big time and the man at the end of the line was willing to pay plenty of it just to know what Allison was up to while he was out of town.

  It made Charlie feel a little better to know that even rich bastards like Arnie Milhouse were as insecure as the next guy.

  Like Arnie, though, Charlie couldn’t help but wonder who had been driving the sedan. Charlie wondered if Arnie would let him know after he tracked the tags down. He doubted it. The guy had sounded downright creepy tonight. A little psycho, you know?

  Charlie turned and saw the guy who’d screwed with Allison stumble out of McGarvey’s, Mick standing in the door behind him, his thick arms crossed over his chest. The man grumbled a few cuss words back toward Mick but then stumbled over to Middleton Tavern right next door and disappeared inside.

  Charlie headed in that direction, not really sure what he intended to accomplish following the guy. He wanted to beat his face in, but the guy was huge, and Charlie, hobbling around on his crutches, wasn’t exactly in fighting form. One benefit of going to Middleton Tavern was that he could drink without Mick hovering over him. And getting a serious drink on was exactly what he felt like doing.

  He was more than a little ashamed that he’d sold out his new friend for a few bucks. He thought about coming clean with Allison the next time he saw her. He decided to call that Plan B. Plan A was to wash away his guilt with as many beers as his low-limit credit card would allow and see if he felt better in the morning.

  CHAPTER 24

  By the time Charlie Foxen was bellied back up to the bar, doing his damnedest to score with the new waitress, the black sedan hit the freeway, west on Highway 50, and picked up speed through the night.

  Neither of the vehicle’s occupants spoke, or gave any inclination they intended to for the rest of the entire trip. Scott stared straight ahead, radio off, needle hovering just the slightest amount over the speed limit.

  It would be another hour at least. Then, Scott hoped, his part in this mess would be over, and he would never have to see Allison McNeil again.

  CHAPTER 25

  The room was larger than it needed to be. A long table of highly polished wood sat in the center facing a single wooden chair. The officer who escorted Allison into the room told her to sit in the chair and wait. Then he turned on his heel and left her alone. That had been more than ten minutes ago.

  It was cold in the room, but she wiped sweaty palms against her uniform. She wasn’t sure if she would have to shake any hands, but she wanted to be ready to make a good impression if she did. The ceiling soared more than twenty feet above her, plenty of room for the banners that covered the walls. She spent time inspecting them, working through the Latin phrases on each. She felt nervous but in control. After all, she hadn’t done anything wrong.

  A door behind her opened. The footsteps sounded distant and hollow on the wooden floor and they bounced around the massive room. Even though the people were walking together, she could still pick out one set of footsteps different from the others. Heel-toe. Heel-toe. Slightly higher pitched than the others.

  Good, she thought, at least there is one woman.

  There were five people, all uniformed naval officers. They would be both judge and jury for this case. Allison suppressed a groan when she saw the woman. They had met before.

  Suddenly Allison couldn’t decide what to do with her hands. Everything seemed to send a signal. At her sides, too nervous. On the handrails of the chair, too casual. Crossed on her lap, too prissy.

  She had the ridiculous idea to sit on them, and that calmed her down. Even though she was nineteen years old, the absurd still had that effect on her.

  The panel took its place at the massive table. She tried to read faces but got nothing back from any of them.

  She fidgeted in her chair as the judges took theirs, none of them making eye contact with her.

  “We have read your report, Ms. McNeil,” the man in the center said—too suddenly, it appeared, by the surprised reaction of the other members of the board. She noticed this and wondered if the others thought there would be introductions, some small talk, but the man in the center was obviously in charge, because no one spoke up to correct his abrupt beginning. “And first let me say that we were shocked by what is contained here.”

  She ran her eyes down the line of faces. They were all staring at her, fixing in her direction severe expressions reserved for military statues. Only at the end of the table was there any reprieve. The woman gave her a small smile that may or may not have been meant as reassurance. Regardless of the uniformed woman’s intention, Allison felt comforted.

  “The purpose of this closed-door session is to determine whether to move forward with an Article 32 hearing,” the man in the center continued. “That will be a public questioning that will result in a recommendation on how the charges should be addressed. The superintendent will make the final determination whether there will be a court martial, or if the case will be dropped. As a board it is our duty to examine the details in an objective manner and render a decision based on the facts at hand. Before we go on, does any . . .”

  “I have a question,” the woman said.

  The man in the center looked impatient over the interruption, but he yielded to the woman who was no longer smiling.

  “Thank you.” She turned to Allison. “I read your report, and I personally find the contents deeply troubling.”

  Allison swallowed hard and felt the sting in her eyes. She promised herself that she would not cry, no matter what happened, but there was something about the way this woman said the words deeply troubling. As if she was saying that as a woman she understood the
costs and the pain more than the men sitting next to her and because of that she was reaching out to help.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Allison replied, not knowing if there was a question buried somewhere for her to answer.

  “The man you name in this file is a respected instructor, a man known for his commitment to this institution.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “A man whose reputation and livelihood could be damaged irreparably should these allegations come to light. Should a public hearing be chosen.”

  Allison took a second to respond as she noticed the accusatory edge in the woman’s voice. She also noted that it was the second time the word public had been thrown at her like a warning. “Ma’am, I understand the reputation of Craig Gerty, but—”

  “That’s First Mate Gerty. Show some respect.” It was the man on the far left, bald, thick glasses, puffy cheeks made red by too many boozy late nights. He looked like a stickler for the rules, and he was one.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, what I want to say—”

  The bald man held up his hand. “Why did you wait three days to report the alleged incident, Ms. McNeil?”

  “I—I was . . .” She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. “I know now that I should have reported the incident right away. I was just trying—”

  “Trying to what?”

  “I was just trying to—”

  “Trying to what, Ms. McNeil?”

  “Give the girl a chance,” grumbled the man to the right of center. He was younger than the rest, out of place among the graying and the soon to be retired. His quiet comment made the rest of them nervous, and they looked to one another for reassurance. He appeared conflicted, biting his lip as if he were making a decision. When he finally looked up at her, something inside him gave in. He placed his hands on the table in front of him. “Were you told you could have a lawyer here?” he asked.

  The others didn’t like this at all.

  “This is an informal hearing,” said the man in charge.

  “Seems pretty formal to me,” the younger man said. He looked at Allison, his eyes pleading with her to hear his questions as advice. “Do you want to have a lawyer here? You’re entitled to one.”