“Don’t you move,” came a voice from the darkness inside the bar. It was the voice of a heavy smoker but strongly confident. “Who the hell are you?”
Robbie stepped in front of Val and raised his pistol.
Jackie stepped forward, too.
“I said don’t move!”
Val raised his hands in surrender. It wasn’t his intention to cause any trouble. Never had been. “Put the gun down, Robbie.” When Robbie turned and gave Val a confused look, he repeated himself. “Go on. It’s all right.”
Robbie Parker lowered the gun.
“We need help, Frank,” said Val matter-of-factly.
The figure in the darkness inched forward, bending slightly to get a closer look at the intruder’s face. “V… Val? Val Salinger, is that you?” He lowered the gun to his side and strode toward them.
Val flinched, ready to defend himself if need be. But then he felt Frank’s strong embrace as he took him in for a hug. It was a manly hug, not like the loving cuddle of a mother and her son but of two football players who were acknowledging each other’s good performance on the field.
“I’d heard you were still alive. Didn’t know whether to believe it.” Frank looked at Robbie and nodded to say that he forgave him, then turned to Jackie. “Shut the door. Or what’s left of it. We’ll go upstairs. It’s a bit safer up there.”
The group followed Frank through to the back door, which led onto a set of wooden stairs. They went up into a room that looked somewhat like an attic. Robbie whispered to Val, asking if he was sure they could trust this man, and Val simply nodded.
“Not much I can offer you really. Uh…” Frank stumbled around, pulling a spaghetti-pattern of clothes off a comfortable-looking leather couch, and then gestured that they take a seat. “She’s real soft. Brand new. Try it.”
Val sat down, but Robbie and Jackie did otherwise, walking around the room and inspecting the single window, the other doors, and anything else of interest. It was like they were repo workers coming to collect the man’s possessions.
Frank sat beside Val. “What’s this about, pal?”
It was good to see Frank again. The last time Val had any contact with his former colleague was when they were on a job together. They’d been investigating a man who had been dating politicians—the females and the males. Coincidentally, every one that he wined and dined ended up dying from premature natural causes. Everyone had known that the politician was to blame, and certain toxins in the body even suggested that their drinks had been spiked, but there had been nothing to suggest that this man—who they had called “Pill Slipper”—had been the one who’d spiked them. That was a loophole in the law that he’d squeezed through time and time again. In response to this, the Agency had sent Val and Frank to take care of him, once again venturing into a place that no legal organization ever could. Some might have called it vigilantism, but Val, just like everyone else he worked with, called it “ambitious law-bending.”
“Frank, I need you to do something for me,” Val told him.
“I guessed as much. What do you need?” Frank had aged surprisingly well. Although only a few years behind Val, he looked to still be in his early fifties, save for the crow’s-feet and ever-so-slightly-receding hairline.
“Do you still have contacts at the Agency?”
“I talk to a couple of the guys, sure.” Frank pulled a pack of smokes from his pocket, put one in his mouth, and offered one to Val, who took it and placed it between his lips. “Jones, Saban, and Lawton are the big bean-spillers at the moment.”
Val leaned forward to accept the light and coughed as soon as the smoke filled his lungs. Never mind, he thought and powered through it. “Is Blake still—”
“Oh good, you knew.” A smile stole over Frank’s face as he blew a long cloud of smoke into the room. “I was wondering how the hell to tell you that your son is Charlie’s number one badass. Looks like you saved me the trouble.”
Jackie waved her arms around like she’d walked face-first into a spider’s web. “Keep that damn smoke away from me, for Christ’s sake.”
“Language, dear,” Frank said, ignoring her request entirely.
“So is he…” Val dared to ask, only wanting to hear one version of the answer.
“What?” Frank asked. “Alive?”
“Yes.”
“And kicking, pal. Last I heard, he killed that partner of yours.” He removed the cigarette from his mouth momentarily. “Beg your pardon, ex-partner.”
“Wait.” Jackie lunged forward, no longer bothered by the cigarette smoke. “Greg is dead?” It was a look of surprise upon her face, but the untrained eye could easily have mistaken it for a frown of concern.
“Greg.” Frank huffed, grinning at the name. The man in question had many names, but Greg was by far the most popular. “Yep. Blake took him out.”
Val felt everything sliding out of his control. My Blake, he thought. My son killed him? He was feeling something he wasn’t sure he’d felt before. Was it disappointment? Surprise, perhaps? One of the greatest assassins he’d ever known had been murdered by a salesman. Val had to remind himself that the man he’d once worked with deserved no better a death than that. Not after what he’d put them all through.
But still, he was once a good friend.
“Hey… Frank, was it?” Jackie leaned over the back of the armchair. “You seem to have your ear to the ground. What have you heard about Rachel Lawrence?”
Frank looked over at Val, who was staring at a space on the floor. He was still struggling to take it all in. “I haven’t heard anything. Sorry.”
Val cleared his throat and spoke up. “Can you get in touch with Lawton?”
“Sure. What do you want him to do?”
“I need a meeting set up between Blake and me.”
Robbie stirred, unfolding his arms. His ears pricked up.
“Yeah, I can do that,” Frank said. “But I gotta warn you, he may not be the same kid you raised. You know what Charlie’s like—smoke, mirrors. Manipulation.”
Val nodded. “Two nights from now. At the bench by the lake in Echo Park. On the eastern side.”
Jackie frowned. “Val, what are we going to do about Rachel? We can’t just leave her wherever she is. Shouldn’t we be focusing on finding her?”
Val thought about where she might be. As much as he loved her—like she was his own daughter, in fact—there was nothing he could do to help her. They didn’t have the slightest idea where she might be, or even if she was still alive. He swallowed. “We have to let her go, Jackie. She will either show up or she won’t.”
Jackie pushed herself up and stalked around the room clenching her fists.
“You need somewhere to stay tonight?” Frank asked.
Val stubbed out his cigarette. There was enough poison in his life right now. He didn’t much care for the taste anymore, anyway. “If you don’t mind,” he said. “But let’s make that phone call first.”
For the rest of the night—after setting up the meeting—they ate, drank, and caught up on the latest news from inside the Agency. Val learned that Frank had shut down the bar in hopes of being relocated to Chicago. The bar he owned now wasn’t a real bar anyway—it was only a front while he managed communications on behalf of the Agency. A retirement plan that wasn’t really a retirement plan. A bad deal, but at least he got to live.
The only person who didn’t indulge in the company that night was Jackie, who only sat by the window watching the moon peek in and out between grayish clouds. For the entire time, her arms were folded and her head was rolled onto one side as she occasionally sniffled. Val knew she was mourning for Rachel, and he didn’t dare disturb her, or even so much as join her. To do so would be to accept that Rachel was dead.
And it was all because of him.
Chapter Eight
A number of things had confused Rachel about this man’s personality. The way his head occasionally jerked made her wonder if there was something medically wron
g with him. He spoke just like a normal person; his tone was calming and delicate. Although he did have a stutter. A stutter is as regular as a lisp, she thought. Anyone can have a speech impediment. It doesn’t mean he’s insane.
But then there’d been times when he looked at her with a certain blankness. He often stared into space, but when he did, there was something working in his eyes. It was like he was daydreaming, trying to imagine what it would be like to… touch her? No. Rachel had suffered more than enough creeps in her time. This guy did not want sex.
So then, what did he want?
Since the incident with the butter knife, his visits had become limited to—at first—none. After the first couple of days, he’d begun to bring her food again, though only once per day as opposed to the usual two.
But this, she thought, lying on her back and staring up at the open door, must be a test of some sort. There was no way this man would be careless enough to leave the door open accidentally… was there? She considered creeping up the stairs and taking a quick look. Was there anything wrong with that? Rachel didn’t think so.
It must have been nearly an hour since he’d left her there, without so much as a word spoken between the pair of them. Since then there’d been rock music in the air. She thought it was coming from directly above her, but she couldn’t feel the rumble of the bass. The music was still going now, so if she was going to make a run for it, at least the powerful voice of Bonnie Tyler would drown out the sound of her feet on the wooden steps.
After minutes of only staring, she summoned the courage to clamber to her feet. Her knees could barely take the weight. She’d been on the ground for too long. She used the railing for support as she stood like an elderly woman, legs angled inward, looking up at the mountain of steps before her.
Rachel took a deep breath, the flutter in her heart making her woozy. Making sure she had a tight grip, she took her first step. It wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be—the blood must have been starting to circulate properly again.
About halfway up the steps, the song finished, and there was silence before she heard footsteps. Her heart thumped along in a drum-like rhythm as the footsteps came closer.
But then there was silence again.
Nothing.
She steadied her breathing.
The music started up again and Rachel had never thought she would be so grateful to hear a song from Queen. She hated Queen. She’d always admired the instrumentals but hated the sound of Freddie Mercury’s voice. No man, she thought, should sound like that.
As the music continued, so did she. By the time she got to the top, her legs were only twinging, but they were in perfectly good order. There was still an inch-wide gap between the door and its frame. She pressed her face against the door, trying her best not to shove it open by accident. It smelled more pleasant in the hallway, something floral. Or maybe it was just the difference from the room she’d been in for… how long had it been now? It must have been a while, for the hairs were starting to grow long on her legs.
She could hear the Queen album moving on to the next track, and she finally summoned the courage to poke her head through the door. From here, she could see the front door, but the man occupied the room before it. Thankfully, he had his back to her, standing up on his armchair and wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. His back was fat, hairy, and grotesque, and it wobbled as he pranced around, thinking himself a rock star. What a fucking nut, she thought, but then remembered that even she became a diva in the shower.
Rachel craned her neck and saw another room to her left. As quietly as possible, she tiptoed out of the basement and onto the carpeted floor. It was a gentle caress against her bare feet, but she couldn’t wait to get out of here.
The thing that struck her was that she’d almost thought of going back for Splinter. She’d become so lonely down in the basement that she couldn’t begin to imagine going on without that friendly rat in her life. But that’s ridiculous, she cursed herself. It’s just a rat. All the same, she could feel that leaving him was a bit of a strain on her heart. That same feeling as throwing away something sentimental, even if it was for the greater good.
She moved along the hallway, keeping an eye behind her. The man turned slightly, leaping from the chair and dropping to his knees for his big guitar solo (there wasn’t a guitar in his hands—only an imaginary one). Rachel used this opportunity to rush into the empty room, hoping to God there would be a back door.
It seemed too good to be true, but there in fact was a door. She expected it to be locked, as that would be her kind of luck. When she reached for the handle, it fell off in her hand and the door sprang open with an alarming screech.
Rachel tensed for a moment, but the music continued.
Sliding through the thin gap, she was finally outside. The fresh, freezing-cold air hit her in one powerful blast. It went straight to her head, and she almost collapsed. Rachel put a hand against the wall, trembling in the low nighttime temperatures, steadying herself and looking out onto…
Oh no…
Ahead of her was only a range of hills, dimly illuminated by the moonlight. She could hear something howling in the distance, and she shivered harder.
Where the hell am I?
She was looking for another path home. She could try the front of the house, but she didn’t want to have the hope of escape stripped from her. Nevertheless, she crept along the outside of the building, around to the front. Shingles and stones dug into the bottoms of her feet, but she didn’t care. She was so close to freedom. So close to—
No, no, no!
The front of the house was the same, just a dried-up dirt track in front of an array of trees. Rachel wondered if she could follow the track and be led to the nearest town. But she could see down the slope and realized she was on a hill. The nearest lights were far, far away in the distance.
Maybe through the trees.
Yes, she could use the trees for cover and emerge on the other side where an enormous, caring man might be taking a late-night stroll. What’s the matter, miss? Let’s get you somewhere safe, he would say as he scooped her up and took her somewhere warm and fed her some real food. She could almost taste the hot soup in her mouth. Her cold gooseflesh would be comforted by a warm blanket. She could brush her teeth and return to Blake like a brand-new person. A person who—
“You don’t know where you are, do ya?”
Rachel heard the voice and startled. A part of her didn’t want to admit to herself that she’d heard it, but what choice did she have? She turned, looking at the man—her captor—who was now wearing a T-shirt with the Batman logo and a dark pair of boots.
“Where?” She wanted to give up. Her breath shot out of her mouth in a white mist.
“Nobody around for m-m-miles.”
Rachel believed him.
“Why don’t you c-come i-i-inside?” He stepped closer.
Rachel took a step back, held her hands out in front of her. “Stay away from me, you damn weirdo!” she screamed. “I won’t be your prisoner anymore. You hear me? You don’t own me. You don’t—”
“I-I-I know. Look, I’m g-going inside. Come in if you want to t-talk. Or you can fr-fr-fr-freeze out here in the c-cold. Your choice.” Amazingly, the man turned and went back inside, leaving her with the decision.
She looked back at the trees, pictured branches snapping at her knees as she ran, broken twigs digging into the soles of her bare feet, ripping her skin apart. And after that? No guarantee that she would be safe.
In the distance, the howling echoed again, and Rachel felt herself shiver. She glanced around, holding her arms and tensing her back. Damn, it’s cold out here! In truth, she wanted to head back inside just for the sake of the warmth. But then she pictured the man, the newspaper clippings she’d seen, and the way he’d behaved. He’d been protective, then shy, then angry, and now… welcoming?
It would be a long way to the nearest town, if she could even make it at all. She didn’t wa
nt that. She didn’t want to freeze to death, but she didn’t want to be kept like an animal (Splinter) either. Her options were limited; die in the cold or live in the warmth.
Rachel shuddered, hugged herself a little tighter, then went back inside.
Chapter Nine
The room was alive with FBI staff members each performing their separate roles. Everything around him looked new, as if it had only been installed over the past few months. Even the smell of fresh paint was persistent. Terry had to force himself not to gag.
“Let’s see here,” Cooper said, scrolling through a database, the bright screen reflecting the text off his black-rimmed glasses. He looked how Clark Kent should have looked, if only he were smaller. His back hunched a little, probably a side effect of years at a desk.
Terry Davenport sat in silence, looking again at the letter he’d taken from Sergeant Houston’s car. After a long discussion with his wife (it was strictly against the law to discuss such matters with his wife, but he’d always considered her his best friend and his counsel), he’d decided he would seek permission from his employer. First, however, he wanted to make sure the address checked out. No point raising a rattlesnake if you’re unable to kill it, he thought.
“Well,” Cooper said, pushing his chair away from his desk, the wheels taking him inches back until he slowed to a stop. He waved a hand at the computer. “Be my guest.”
Terry got up and walked around the desk, then crouched to look at the monitor. It read: No address found. “So it’s a dud?”
“Click the dropdown box.”
He did as he was told and saw the option for Street listings. Terry clicked it and saw a street plan laid out like a blueprint, only it was white and each building had the number—and name, where applicable—scribed across it. It looked like an unraveled Monopoly board. And in the center, The Aldridge Building, 312 Lucas Avenue. “So it is listed?”
“Nope.” Cooper pulled himself back toward the computer, close to knocking Terry out of the way. “It’s not listed, but it does exist. If I were you, I would check it out with the director.” He took the duplicate of the letter and waved it at Terry, who shook his head, so he slid it into the paper shredder and watched it get gobbled up.
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