Acoustic Shadows

by Patrick Kendrick

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I need a favour, Sara.’

  Logan smiled hopefully and looked at herself in the mirror. She was in her favourite lace teddy. Her nipples were pressed against the sheer fabric like flesh-coloured happy faces pressed against glass. She pulled at the points of her blonde tipped, spiky hair. She wondered if Thiery liked the new, short do. The thought came to her: I wonder if he’d like to jumpstart where we’d left off … would I?

  ‘Anything you want, Justin,’ she said, embarrassed by the throaty sound of her own voice. Jesus girl, control yourself! It can’t lead to anything other than trouble.

  He hesitated, recognizing that sensuous change in her voice, trying to stay aloof. ‘I was involved in a shooting tonight,’ he said, ignoring her unspoken invitation. ‘We were tracking the Weisz woman. She was in Lake Wales in what I think was another safe haven for WITSEC.’

  ‘What?’ worry now in her voice.

  ‘Let me finish. I don’t have proof yet, and if my hunch is right, I don’t want to further jeopardize her, so I’m not going to say anything to the press. But, the governor made a big deal about putting the FDLE in charge of the case yesterday, so I’m going to have to say something to the media about why I can’t be lead anymore. I’m going to say I’m on administrative leave pending an investigation into the shooting incident, which is true, but I’m also going to try to reach out to her through that press release.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to take over the lead on the investigation.’

  Logan thought about it for a moment. If he was right about the WITSEC connection, and the guns were transported interstate by a convicted felon, it would make the case federal and give her a reason to take a more active role in the investigation. Still, she wasn’t sure she wanted to put herself out there without authorization from her supervisor. Or, without getting something out of it.

  ‘I suppose I could … but it will cost you,’ she said coyly, ashamed of her own longing but so caught up in it now, she knew there was no turning back. Why not, she asked herself, we don’t live forever.

  Thiery again recognized that familiar honeyed tone she used when she wanted him. ‘C’mon, Sara. Quit fucking around. This is business.’

  ‘Don’t be a shit, Justin. Just once more, for old times’ sake?’ She closed her eyes and thought of him, his still athletic chest – she used to love to run her fingers through the hair like stroking a cat – his muscular shoulders and arms. The flat abs. The … everything. A guilt trip as the image of her husband flicked into her head, his kind, watery blue eyes and familiar smile gazing lovingly at her. Then she pictured his leathered skin, the ‘moobs’ – the sagging man boobs – of a man that, while a saint, displayed their age difference like a failed monument of if only. But Logan pushed past those thoughts.

  She felt her pelvis grow heavy with lust and shivered as if she’d been electrocuted. ‘One more “roll in zee hay?”’ she said, weakly, hopefully, referring to the Teri Garr line from Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein. She and Thiery had watched the movie on a rainy afternoon at her Ormond Beach house.

  Thiery couldn’t help but smile from the memory. He could hear the waver in her voice, her breath almost ragged. She really had a problem, but what was he going to do? He shook his head, remembering how they were in bed, and found himself becoming aroused in spite of his reluctance to do so. Nothing good could come from it, but …

  ‘Okay,’ he said, relenting. ‘I’ve got one of the reporters staying here at my hotel. I’m going to wake him up and give him an exclusive. I’d like you to be here when I do that. But, I need to call my boss first. I also need another favour from you.’

  Logan was sliding into tight stretch jeans as he spoke. She pulled the teddy over her head while she kept the phone to her ear. She shrugged into a white button down shirt and looked around for her FBI windbreaker. ‘Sure,’ she said, trying to hide the anticipation in her voice.

  ‘I’m going to text an attachment to you of the man I shot tonight. I think he and his brother, who was also killed at the scene, were hitmen. I don’t know their connection to Erica Weisz yet, but they’re out of Mexico, so I’m thinking there’s some drug cartel involved. Can you run their names through your database, and see if you can find anything on them?’

  ‘I’ll get right on it,’ she said, looking at her notes, ‘but I found something of interest today, too. We traced the guns used at the school back to a pawn shop in Vegas. I tried calling the owner, a hump named Tito Viveros, but he acted like the connection was bad and hung up on me. I’m going to have some agents drop in on him tomorrow and see if they can shake something out of him. If Shadtz transported the guns from Nevada to Florida…’

  Thiery cut her off. ‘That makes it federal anyway.’

  ‘Yup.’ She was whispering as she trotted through the plush carpeted halls of the Gaylord, trying not to wake other occupants in the hotel but so eager to get with Thiery.

  ‘Even better,’ he said, trying to ascertain why she was speaking so low. ‘This could lead us to something that would substantiate Weisz being in the WITSEC programme.’

  ‘If she is, I should be able to find out.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that. The US Marshals are pretty tight-lipped about their witnesses.’

  ‘So how did Mexican hitmen find Weisz in Bumfuck, Florida?’ Logan asked, but a thought—something about Wyatt Earp, a marshal—crept into her head.

  ‘Good question,’ said Thiery.

  ‘I’ll be at your hotel within the hour. Is that okay?’ She wondered if he could hear her heartbeat in her voice like she could in her own head.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Thiery, then almost reluctantly added, ‘Thanks for the help. I look forward to … seeing you,’ he added, trying to keep it cool and professional but knowing it wouldn’t be.

  He hung up, distracted. Logan did that to him. He’d forgotten to tell her that the dead triggermen might have been staying at her hotel, according the rental car agency lease agreement. No matter, he thought, they couldn’t hurt her or anyone else now.

  After the call to Logan, Thiery went to the bathroom, splashed some water in his face, and let it drip, undried, like an iceberg melting. He’d killed a man tonight; it wasn’t the first, might not be the last. He stared, regrettably, at his reflection in the hotel restroom.

  Then he called Bullock.

  ‘Sorry to wake you, boss, but there’s been an incident.’

  Bullock sat up and sipped the water on his nightstand to lubricate his throat. ‘When you say ‘incident’, Justin, it makes me uncomfortable.’

  ‘Don’t get riled, but I had to put a guy down tonight. You’re going to have to place me on administrative leave for an investigation.’

  ‘How is it you managed to kill someone while investigating a school shooting?’ he whispered, trying not to wake his wife.

  ‘Remember when I told you earlier that I had a feeling about Weisz and the WITSEC programme? Well, I’m almost sure of it, now. We tracked her down tonight, but missed. Then a couple out of country hitmen showed up at the place she was staying. Now, they’re both dead and so are a few of the locals that came looking for her.’

  ‘Jesus. Sounds like the wild west down there.’

  ‘Oh, it’s non-stop fun. Did I thank you for sending me down here?’

  ‘Sorry, kid, but you play the hand you’re dealt,’ he said, sliding out of bed. He bumped down the hall on the way to the kitchen, rubbing his face to wake himself up. ‘Speaking of WITSEC, I talked to Ron Sales, my friend from the US Marshal’s Office, about meeting for lunch tomorrow, and he said he was up to his ears with some shit. So I pushed him on the magician thing you were talking about. Are you ready for this?’

  ‘Shoot. Uh, my bad. Go ahead.’

  ‘Smart ass. Anyway, he confirmed it. He said he couldn’t reveal who was in the programme, but that there is a programme where witnesses are renamed after magicians. The idea is that they’re
supposed to disappear, you know, for a period of time. He also said there was another programme named after Hollywood starlets because, he said, “they’re here one day and gone the next”. And another one named after animals that are extinct. Clever, huh?’

  ‘So there might be a Dorothy Dodo out there?’ said Thiery, exhausted but somehow amused. ‘Who writes their programmes for them, Jimmy Fallon?’

  ‘I know, right?’ Bullock hesitated. ‘So, this shooting, it was justified, I assume?’

  ‘Of course, Jim’ said Thiery, a weariness seeping in. ‘When I got to the scene there were already a half-dozen guys on the ground. The perp, a guy name Alejandro Lopez, was firing off an assault weapon like he was going into Kandahar. Had to put him down. And get this, he shot and killed Coody’s father.’

  ‘The kid from the school shooting?’

  ‘Same one.’

  ‘Je-sus H. Christ. Now, who the hell can I get down there to take your place?’

  ‘Uh, I’ve asked Sara Logan to take over as lead.’

  ‘Oh, really? You getting back into that?’

  ‘Trying not to,’ he said, knowing full well he wasn’t trying hard enough, ‘but she is here and I needed her help. Besides, if this WITSEC thing turns out to be true, we’re going to need her.’

  ‘Explain that to me. I’m still not quite awake.’ He found some coffee left over from the morning, poured a cup and put it in the microwave, then sipped it black as steam rose off of it.

  ‘Well, she’s federal. We can’t seem to get behind closed doors at the US Marshal’s Office, but she might be able to. If Weisz is in the programme, and some hit men came here to find her, it can only mean one thing: someone, like a US Marshal, has given her up.’

  ‘Oh, man. You can’t keep things simple, can you?’

  ‘C’mon, boss. I didn’t start this thing. I’m just trying to get ahead of it before the body count gets any higher.’

  Thiery could hear Bullock sighing over the phone. ‘Okay, let’s make it official,’ the boss said. ‘At, let me see … as of 1:30 a.m., you are officially on administrative leave, pending the on duty shooting of a suspect. I’m guessing you won’t come home to kick back and get some sun by the pool?’

  ‘You got that right. On admin leave, I can still advise the lead agent in the course of an investigation, right?’

  ‘Technically, yes.’

  ‘Then that’s what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Okay, Justin. Do what you got to do. But, stay safe and try not to embarrass the department. Cool?’

  ‘Like ice, boss.’

  Thiery hung up just as he heard a quiet knock on the door. He opened it, and Logan rushed into the room. She ripped off her FBI windbreaker and, still wearing her shoulder holster, wrapped her arms around Thiery, practically squeezing the air out of him. Thiery had forgotten how strong she was from years of swimming. He tried to gently disentangle himself, but, when he looked down into her face, her eyes had that do-me-now look, her lips parted and wet. She rose up on her tiptoes and stuck her tongue into his mouth. His conscience tried to kick in, recalling: she’d dropped him before, the hurt, the guilt, his sense of loss, but it all fell away with that kiss, and the only thing that filled his mind now was the want for her.

  A half-hour later, they were in the shower rinsing away the sweat of their exertions, trying to regain some professionalism, before they went to Dave Gruber’s room to give him the exclusive.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The sun resembled a bloody egg yolk as it peeked up over the concrete and asphalt wasteland of Orlando, casting an ochre tint on Erica’s already jaundiced face. She had reclined the seat of the Chrysler 300 and fallen asleep as she tried to summon the courage to go into the Gaylord Palms Hotel and find any accomplices of the men who tried to kill her, as if they were going to be standing around with signs around their necks that read ‘BAD GUY’.

  Through the night, Erica had followed the green line of the car’s GPS. The trail had brought her to the gargantuan hotel sprawled out before her, detouring only once when she’d spied an all-night Walmart off I-95. She’d walked into the chain store carrying one of the Lopez brothers’ jackets over her hands to hide the cuffs, though, looking around at some of the late-night shoppers, she realized none of them would’ve given two shits about a lady in handcuffs. In the auto parts department, she found a set of bolt cutters and, as nonchalantly as she could, placed them on the counter with an Arizona Iced Tea and three twenty dollar bills. The white-haired clerk with eyeglasses as thick as coke bottles didn’t have time to give her a receipt before she was out the door.

  In a dimly lit parking lot, she managed to get the chain that linked the handcuffs into the jaws of her new bolt cutters while balancing the cutters between her thighs. Then, she squatted down on the handles with her butt, hoping she still weighed enough to snap the links. She had to do a little bouncing, but she succeeded. Now, she sported a stylish stainless steel bracelet that looked exactly like one end of a handcuff. Biker chic. If only she had time to stop for a tattoo.

  She got back on the road and continued following the route on the GPS that led her here. She stared at the entrance to the hotel, marvelling at its Disney castle-look, the winding entrance lined with expensive cars, and wondering what her next move should be, as she sipped the tea. The Sig was in her lap, feeling as if it weighed fifty pounds. It was well made, expensive, like an exotic sports car. She ran her fingers along the barrel of the gun, admiring its sleek hardness, its cool surface. She’d always hated guns, the deadly and final look of them. What they stood for. Their sheer criminality. Now, she looked at the weapon and felt her heartbeat speed up, not just in anticipation of using it in a firefight to avenge herself and her family, but because it was attractive in some odd way. Like the sports car, it was a symbol of speed, danger, money, and possibly death, and that no longer frightened her. It beckoned her.

  Her stomach growled, and it dawned on her that she might not be doing her best thinking right now. She looked around and saw a Waffle House sign poking up from a range of palmetto bushes. She cranked the car and drove over. Looking into the glove box, she found some expensive wrap-around sunglasses and put them on. There was a little straw fedora in the back seat, and she pushed it onto her head and looked into the rear-view mirror. Yep, she looked like someone trying to disguise herself. But, she thought, a waitress at a Waffle House wasn’t going to go out of her way to try to identify a missing person while earning minimum wage and worrying about how she was going to buy groceries for three kids. Besides, with the dye job, hat, and sunglasses, along with her newly acquired gaunt complexion, she looked like any other druggie creeping in for an end of night, eat-before-I-go-home-and-crash meal.

  Erica pushed the pistols under the seat and went inside for breakfast. She ordered waffles, bacon, eggs over easy, coffee with cream, and a glass of milk from a red-eyed waitress who smelled like pot and had a tattoo of an angel on the back of one hand and one of a butterfly on the other. Her fingernails were chewed to the quick. She said she liked Erica’s hat.

  It was a lot of food. In spite of her hunger, Erica found she could not finish. Her stomach twisted in on itself like an eel eating its own tail, but she managed to keep the meal down.

  She climbed back into the car and returned to the Gaylord. This time, she did not wait. She went inside, her untucked shirt covering the Sig nestled into the top of her pants, a round already chambered. She approached the welcome counter and told the man at the front desk she had been shit-faced the night before and lost her billfold with her room key. Removing her sunglasses, she widened her blue eyes. The young man was quickly lost in them, despite being at least ten years her junior.

  ‘Your name?’ he asked, hopefully, a gentrified southern twang in his voice. The name tag on his jacket read ‘Cary,’ and under that: ‘Knoxville, Tennessee’.

  ‘Lopez,’ she answered.

  He looked at a computer screen, frowned. ‘Is that A. Lopez or E. Lopez?’

/>   ‘A,’ she answered calmly and without hesitation.

  He quickly printed a new card and placed it in an envelope, scribbling her room number on the inside flap; Room 527. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms Lopez?’

  Erica smiled and dropped her eyes, then raised them back up. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll let you know.’

  Splotches of red appeared on the young man’s face as she turned away.

  In the lobby, a huge flat screen TV caught her eye. THN was on, and the reporter she’d previously seen covering the school shooting was interviewing someone. She stepped closer to hear the broadcast.

  ‘In an exclusive report you will only see here,’ the reporter, Dave Gruber, was saying, ‘we are interviewing Agent Justin Thiery from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and Special Agent Sara Logan from the FBI. Agent Thiery, will you please tell our TV viewing audience what you told me a few moments ago?’

  Thiery squinted into the bright camera light. ‘Last night,’ he began, ‘while searching for Erica Weisz, the teacher who allegedly shot the two intruders at Travis Hanks Elementary School, a group of armed men stormed a house in Lake Wales. I believe Ms Weisz had been there and that these men intended to do her harm. Upon my arrival at the residence, I found several men had been shot, some were deceased, and one man, who has been identified as Alejandro Lopez, was firing an assault weapon. Per my duty as a law enforcement officer, I ordered him to cease firing and lay down his weapon. He did not comply and, instead, pointed his weapon at me, at which point I was forced to fire upon him. He was killed, as was another man we believe to be his brother. Before my arrival, they had shot and killed four other men. The names of the deceased are being held pending notification of their families, but we can reveal that one of those men was the father of David Coody, who was one of the gunmen shot at the school.

  ‘At this time, and per my department’s protocols,’ Thiery continued, ‘I am being placed on administrative leave, pending an investigation of the fatality caused by the discharge of my weapon. This was a witnessed, justified shooting. Still, under the circumstances, I can no longer represent the FDLE as lead on this case. Therefore, FBI Special Agent Sara Logan is taking over until further notice.’