The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense

by Samuel Marquis

  They continued down the hallway in silence. Halfway to the elevator, Patton thought he saw a familiar face emerge from the restroom on the other side of the elevator.

  He took a closer look. His heart rate suddenly went off scale. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  No fucking way! That can’t be her!

  The woman glanced in his direction, but he was partially blocked by Agent Taylor, so she didn’t recognize him. She smiled—a courteous work smile that seemed a tad contrived—and then turned and headed down the hallway. She wore a charcoal-gray business suit with black heels, a ridiculously conservative corporate ensemble that was the last thing he would have expected to see her wearing. And what the hell was she doing working here at American Patriots of all places? He studied her gait: gracefully smooth strides, perfectly coordinated yet sexy, like the prance of an exquisite racehorse. He wanted to say something, but his lips wouldn’t move. It had been so long.

  But just as she was about to pass out of sight behind a cubicle, he called out her name.

  “Jennifer,” he said, feeling his heart thump against his chest, the eyes of the others shifting to him. “Jennifer Odden.”

  The woman stopped in her tracks, and ever so slowly, turned around. He took two steps forward, the others looking at him curiously.

  “You two know each other?” gulped Benjamin Locke.

  Patton didn’t answer at first. His focus was on Jennifer as she walked down the hallway toward him. When she recognized him, her face at first registered surprise. Then her eyes lit up with something closer to genuine affection and that brought Patton a feeling of warmth, but also longing. All the wonderful memories—and the last terrible one—came flooding back to him. She was older now, but the perfectly symmetrical face, the silky blonde hair, the easy stride, they were all still there. There was also a womanliness she had lacked twelve years ago—a maturity—and yet it seemed as if only a short time had passed since he had last seen her. He wanted to ask her what she had been doing with her life and especially what in the hell she was doing working at American Patriots of all places. But instead he merely answered Locke’s question, keeping his tone neutral.

  “We went to college together,” he said, keeping his eyes on Jennifer. “Michigan.”

  Locke gave him an appraising look, as did Taylor. “A pair of Wolverines, eh,” he declared good-naturedly. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know that Jennifer is one of our rising stars here at AMP.” He motioned her forward with an enthusiastic wave of his hand.

  She came walking up wearing a polite smile though Patton could tell she was nervous. Inside he felt a jumble of emotions. The old amorous feelings came rushing back, but there were other things too: anger, pain, betrayal, and more than a little trepidation. In spite of his scrambled emotions, the sight of her was like a spell.

  “Hello, Ken.”

  All he could muster in response was a muted “Jennifer” and he felt like an absolute idiot. They were only a few feet apart, but he was grateful for the distance between them because he wasn’t sure what the hell to say or do next.

  She extended her hand; to his surprise he took it. Her touch was light and tentative, and for some reason this bothered him. In fact, the entire handshaking business seemed wrong given how close they had once been, though he understood her reason for doing it. It made him sad to think that, after all the good times they had shared in college together, they were reduced to a silly professional handshake.

  “You look well,” she said.

  “So do you.”

  There was an awkward silence. Why did she have to look so damn good? He struggled mightily to stem back the flood of memories and knew he had to get the hell out of here. He was ill-prepared for this right now.

  “Well, the Lord certainly works in mysterious ways,” said Locke cheerfully. “You and Special Agent Patton went to college together and now here you stand reunited. Hallelujah indeed.”

  Jennifer raised a brow. “Special Agent Patton?”

  “I work for the FBI.” For some reason he felt embarrassed saying it.

  “He and Agent Taylor are investigating yesterday’s unspeakable tragedy,” said Locke by way of explanation. “It was a terrible, terrible day for us all.”

  Jennifer looked puzzled. “I didn’t realize that AMP…”

  “Oh, it has nothing to do with us,” Locke put in quickly. “We’re just doing our part to help the investigation.”

  “And we appreciate your assistance, Mr. Locke,” said Taylor, all business. “I think we can show ourselves out.”

  “Very well, gentlemen. I pray that you catch those responsible swiftly and bring them to justice.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Patton. He looked at Jennifer, still feeling all jumbled up inside.

  “Good luck, Ken. It’s good to see you again,” she said, and he could tell that she meant it.

  “Nice to see you too,” he replied, though all he wanted was to get the hell out of here.

  “If I can be of further assistance, gentlemen,” offered Locke, “please don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Locke. We won’t,” said Taylor.

  Patton took one last look at Jennifer and then he and Taylor turned and walked away. When they reached the bank of elevators, the Senior Secret Service agent turned to him with a mischievous smile.

  “So you two had a thing. Obviously it didn’t end with ‘Let’s still be friends.’”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” said Patton, and he jabbed irritably at the elevator button.

  CHAPTER 23

  SKYLER DIDN’T CLIMB out of bed at her Venice Beach apartment until after eleven. She had tossed and turned until dawn and felt foggy-headed from lack of rest. Her field assignments often left her dissipated the next day from both lack of sleep and the strain on her nerves. All the rigorous planning and careful execution—of both the kill and escape—took a heavy toll on her, as did the inevitable guilt that came afterwards. Her body cried out for food and strong coffee, but these would have to wait. Checking her email was her top priority right now; she was expecting an important message from Xavier.

  In fact, there were two messages from the control agent, both disappointing. He had made no headway in the negotiations with the contractors; they were still refusing to pay the balance. He said he would keep trying and that she would just have to stand by and wait. He warned her not to do anything rash, which pissed her off. She hated it when he treated her like an impetuous child.

  Cursing to herself, she logged off the computer and took a long, soothing shower. Afterwards she wrapped a towel around herself, opened the bathroom window, and peered down at the street below. Outside, the weather was clear, bright, and windy. A Santa Ana was blowing in from the Mojave and the air smelled of a mixture of the sea and windblown dust. She put on a dash of makeup, tied her hair up, and put on a sundress and leather sandals. Then she went to a secret compartment in her closet, rummaged through her identification documents and credit cards, and selected the credit card and driver’s license for Jeanne Olive, one of a half dozen false names at her disposal. Xavier had equipped her with false credit cards, passports, driver’s licenses, and birth certificates to match each of her identities. After placing the false license and credit card in her purse, she went out.

  Out of long habit, she discretely checked to see if she was being shadowed as she hit the street. To her relief she saw no signs of a tail or anyone suspicious. Even in daylight, there was no need for her to alter her physical appearance in Venice Beach. Though many locals knew her by face, and a few by her current alias, no one really knew her. It was easy for her to buy groceries and receive other basic services without uttering a word. On the rare occasions when someone asked her to a party, over for dinner, or out on a date, she politely declined.

  She purchased a copy of the Los Angeles Times and took lunch at a casual bistro near the pier. The patio was buzzing with conversations about the assassination, but she said nothing to a
nyone except her waiter. She quietly read the paper and ate her lunch: a plate of fruit and a Swiss cheese, sun-dried tomato, and artichoke-heart sandwich. The bistro served a rich dark French roast and she drank two large cups.

  There was an entire pullout section on the assassination in the Times . The paper showed colored-graphic illustrations of both the shooting and the Secret Service’s response. There were several eyewitness accounts, a few uninformative quotes from federal agents and cops, and a terse description of the task force handling the case, no doubt the product of a press leak. The paper briefly presented the physical evidence, but gave few details. Twenty-eight people—all male—had been brought in for questioning in connection with the assassination. There was no mention of anyone matching her description, and no prime suspect.

  She studied the pictures of the three men heading the case and read brief summaries of each man. Henry Sharp, assistant special agent in charge of the FBI’s Denver field office, was in overall command. With his squinting eyes and dark mustache twisted at both ends, he looked intense, like an old-time gunfighter. Then there was Frederick Taylor, the man in charge from the Secret Service’s end of the joint investigation. He had many years in both personal protection and investigation under his belt, and looked it. Here was the consummate veteran: smart, determined, but not cocky. The paper gushed on about how, as a young agent, he had knocked John Hinckley, Jr. down and saved President Reagan in 1981.

  But the most intriguing of the three, from her perspective, was the thirty-three year old FBI special agent named Kenneth Patton. Skyler recognized him immediately as the man who had stopped her outside the Union Plaza Building. A slight grin crossed her face as she recounted how completely she’d fooled him; of course, there was no mention in the newspaper of any woman wheeling a baby in a stroller.

  Finishing her lunch, Skyler paid her bill and picked up her Fiat at the garage. She loaded the stroller containing her long-range sniper’s rifle and other paraphernalia into the car and drove to Marina Del Ray. She stored all of her ordnance and disguises at a locked safe room at the marina. After dropping everything off, she went to the bank and withdrew five hundred dollars in twenty-dollar denominations. Then she headed back to her apartment and put on a green jogging suit, sunglasses, and a two-hundred-dollar pair of Nikes. She wanted to clear her head with a good run and workout.

  Ten minutes later, when she hit Ocean Front Walk, she turned right and headed off at a brisk pace toward Santa Monica to the north. The trees along the boardwalk strained in the wind, which had picked up in the last hour. As if prompted by the wind, Skyler increased her pace. She began to sweat and her legs found a pleasant rhythm. Off to her left, the azure blue sea sparkled in the sunlight and white-capped rollers chugged toward the sandy beach. A flock of seagulls fought stubbornly against the stiff breeze. Windsurfers and sailboats splashed through the waves offshore. To the south, more boats shot out from the marina’s entrance, frothy white water spilling over the gunwales.

  She ran north for a full half hour before retracing her footsteps back to Muscle Beach. A score of skimpily-clad fitness freaks, mostly men, were busily pumping iron on the weight-training pad. She joined them for a dozen sets, without speaking to anyone. Finishing up with two hundred pushups and three hundred sit-ups, she walked to the Windward Avenue pavilion, her body bathed in perspiration.

  She was greeted by a cacophony of street noise: chattering voices, hack guitarists strumming three-cord rock anthems, grinding skateboards. Hippies in colorful tie-dyes peddled trinkets and other useless junk as smartly dressed businesspeople darted past. She bought a mineral water from a street vendor and drank it down in front of the graffiti-disfigured tribute to Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus . Her mind was clear now. She watched the sea rush in to meet the sand as wave after wave broke over the beach. She thought back to those simple summers in Cinqua Terra and Stromboli, before Don Scarpello and Alberto, and wished she could start over again at the age of ten.

  The crash of a huge wave brought her back to reality. It was foolish to daydream of turning back the clock. Of course she would live out her life as an assassin. Of course she would never change, never be able to divorce herself from the demons that haunted her. It was ludicrous to imagine an impossible utopia. She was a contract killer and would always be a contract killer, until she was put behind bars, killed, or built up a sufficient nest egg to retire in comfort. Regrettably, turning back the pages of her life was not an option.

  Feeling a wave of melancholy, she headed back to her apartment. It would have been nice to bring her camera and take some pictures of the tempestuous sea, but that would have to wait for another day. When she turned on Mildred Avenue, her cream stucco apartment building came into view.

  Her jaw dropped when she saw the man from last night at the entrance.

  CHAPTER 24

  “IF THOSE ARE FOR ME, you’re wasting your time,” Skyler said brusquely as she walked up, making sure to use the same generic California accent she had used the night before.

  With feigned surprise, he looked at the colorful bouquet of flowers in his left hand then the bottle of Merlot in his right. “Actually, these are for your much nicer identical twin sister. She just moved in across the hall from you. But, of course, I’m not supposed to say anything.”

  Skyler was taken aback. She had hoped to discourage him straight off and send him away with his tail between his legs, but he had deftly parried her thrust.

  She crossed her arms. “I thought I told you to stay away from me, Anthony Carmeli.”

  “Ah, so you remember my name. That’s a start.”

  This is not a start—this is what’s called an end. She moved past him wordlessly, a sultry expression on her face, and began punching in numbers on the entry keypad next to the door.

  “This is great,” he said, his tone turning more desperate. “You and I are really starting to communicate. My mother always said this is what it takes, give and take. This is a big step in our relationship.”

  Her fingers stopped moving; she turned and glared at him. “We don’t have a relationship.”

  “I don’t know, technically speaking...”

  “I believe I made myself quite clear when I told you to stay away.”

  “What? Just because you chained me to the bed, treated me like a sex toy, tossed me out in the middle of the night, and told me you never wanted to see me again?”

  She shook her head discouragingly. Am I supposed to find this amusing?

  He held out his hands, palms out. “Okay, okay, I was just trying to make you laugh. And besides, sometimes when people say stay away, they really mean come by and see me sometime.”

  He smiled and his brown eyes lit up just a little. Skyler thought back to their lovemaking, if it could be called that, and had to admit it had been delicious. She tried to tell herself that he was just another evil man out to get laid, but somehow he didn’t seem to fit the bill. He seemed genuinely decent, just as he had last night.

  “Why are you here?” she asked him, her head tilted at a challenging angle.

  “I’m not sure. At the moment I guess it’s to be your punching bag.”

  “You want to fuck me again, don’t you? That’s why you brought me wine and flowers.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong—this isn’t about sex. After last night’s exertions, I’d rather be handed a court marshal than sent back to the front. Unless, of course, you have fully encapsulating body armor.”

  With difficulty she stifled a grin. She hated to admit it, but there was something endearing about him. He was trying awfully hard to be funny and she couldn’t begrudge him that. Others had come back around, but their salacious motives were always transparent. But if it wasn’t for sex, what was he doing here? It didn’t make any sense. Men weren’t friendly or romantic without ulterior motives. That’s what Germaine Greer, Gloria Steinem, Susan Faludi, and all the other experts on male behavior said. That’s what her whole life experience had revealed to her.
Men were only nice when they wanted something, usually food, money, or sex. Men were evil liars, cheats, and ruffians who couldn’t be trusted to treat women with decency unless they got something in return.

  “Look, I came by because I wanted to talk to you. Last night had great moments, it really did, but there was something missing. And I feel bad about it because the best part of last night—for me—was when we talked at the bar.”

  Skyler didn’t know what to say. No man had ever spoken to her so openly. She liked that he got a little angry; it suggested his professed motives were genuine. She found herself curious as to how far he would go to win her affections.

  “I want you to know I have some issues with the world too. That’s why I brought this seventy-dollar bottle of Merlot, so we could drink to our postmodernist angst together—in style.”

  “I have to go now,” she said flatly. “I do not have time to drink Merlot.”

  “Okay. Maybe some other time.”

  Skyler kept her expression blank, neither rejecting or accepting him.

  He looked at her with the most sincere brown eyes she had ever seen. “I just wanted to see you again. That’s what this is about. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  She felt her resolve weakening before him. “What does a Hollywood producer want with me anyway? You need some new flesh for one of your X-rated films?”

  He laughed, a mirthful bellow that carried across the street, and in that moment she knew she sort of liked him. He’s definitely not like the others.

  “I don’t do X-rated movies. In fact, I don’t do any kind of movies at the moment. I’m taking a kind of sabbatical. The truth is I’m working out some emotional problems. I guess it’s what you’d call a work-related burnout. From one too many scripts written by adults with first-grade intellect and one too many tantrums by spoiled twenty-million-dollar actors. Not to mention that I’ve become totally marginalized by special-effects technicians.”