by Jack Kilborn
Chicago, Illinois
Tom
Tom Mankowski squinted at his Kindle Fire, determined to read the screen without making the font size larger. The author, some guy with a bunch of letters after his name who supposedly was on Dr. Phil a few times, was writing about the importance of intimacy in a romantic relationship.
No shit. I didn’t need to spend $14.99 to figure that out.
The ebook was called Twenty Tips For Keeping Long Distance Relationships Fresh, and was the first self-help book Tom had ever bought. The price surprised him—he thought ebooks should be much cheaper than that—but the topic was important enough to warrant the purchase.
Unfortunately, the content so far had been less than revelatory.
Call and text often? Check.
Send gifts? Check.
Phone sex? They’d actually taken it once step further, and used video chat on Skype.
Visit when possible?
Tom looked to the right, to the empty side of the bed. Joan hadn’t been over in two weeks. And it had been two months since he’s visited her in LA. In the past hundred days he’d seen her only eight.
Tom smiled every time he got a text from her. It warmed his heart when Joan FedExed a screener DVD of some film she’d produced. And the site of her in a skimpy negligee, doing her best to talk dirty to him on his computer screen but constantly breaking character and giggling—well, it beat the hell out of Internet porn.
But it didn’t beat being with her. Nothing beat being with her.
Tom was lonely. And the loneliness was made worse because he had someone who could fill that void. But she wouldn’t quit her job to move to Chicago, and he wouldn’t quit his to move to L.A.
He flipped the electronic page and read, Plan a surprise visit.
Tom had some vacation days he needed to burn or else he’d lose them. But Joan was in the middle of a shoot, and that meant 80 hour work weeks for her. Still, he could fly to California and be there for her at the end of her day, if only to sleep next to her for a few nights. It was better than lying in bed alone, reading an overpriced book by some PhD with a startling grasp of the obvious.
He blinked, yawned, and damned his pride, pressing the Aa setting on the screen to enlarge the font to a size 8. It beat getting eyeglasses. Then he adjusted his pillow and settled in to read about playing online games together.
Yeah. That’s what Joan would be into. Us fragging each other in an Xbox Halo death match. How the hell did this guy get on Dr. Phil?
But curiosity got the best of Tom, and he exited the book and began to surf the net, seeing if there were any online games about fifteenth century France, which Joan did have an interest in. He was flipping through Google pages when there was a knock at his door.
Tom’s first thought was the gun on his nightstand. As a Homicide cop, Tom had made enemies. And some of them were real doozies.
His second thought was, Maybe Joan is reading this same stupid book and is surprising me with a visit.
She’d called earlier that day, but it had been hours ago. Had she phoned from the airport, just before hopping on the red-eye?
Tom swung his legs out of bed, grabbed the terrycloth bathrobe on the floor (a gift from Joan) and stuck the Sig Saur in his pocket, first making sure there was one in the chamber. He walked out of the bedroom softly, on the balls of his feet, and traversed the short hallway to his apartment door. After an altercation with a very bad and very powerful man several years ago, Tom had improved his home security. The door was bulletproof, with a reinforced security bar. It was the same setup he’d installed at Joan’s house, and nothing short of a charging rhino could get through it.
Tom took a peek through the peephole, and saw two men in dark suits standing in the hallway. Caucasian, thirties, blank expressions. He noted how their jackets bulged, indicating they were carrying.
He palmed his Sig and said, “Yeah?”
The man on the right said, “FBI.”
They both held up badges and ID cards. Tom had seen a few in his day, and they looked legitimate enough. But you could buy anything online these days.
“What do you want?”
“It’s about your partner. Roy Lewis.”
Tom hadn’t expected that.
“What about him?”
“We believe he’s in trouble, Detective Mankowski. Can we come in?”
Tom didn’t like it. It was 2am, a highly abnormal time for the Feebies to drop in. But they both shared the classic, bored expression of government drones, and Roy was like a brother to Tom. Keeping his gun at his side, he went through the complicated process of unlatching the door and letting them in.
“The gun is hardly necessary, Detective,” said the same one, eying Tom’s piece.
“I’m a nervous type.”
They didn’t reply. Tom stepped aside and allowed them into his apartment. He noticed two things immediately.
First was their footwear. Rather than the expected Florsheims or equivalent, these men had heavy boots on, with thick rubber soles, suitable for combat. The second was their scent. It was odd, sort of a musk combined with something medicinal. Nothing that came from a bottle, and unlike any body odor Tom had ever smelled. Neither offensive or appealing, but certainly unusual.
He followed the men into the living room, where they turned to face him. No one made any move to sit on the sofa or easy chair, and Tom didn’t offer them any of the cold coffee still in the pot on the kitchen counter. He waited for them to speak first, an old cop trick. After a few seconds of silence, they did.
“We understand you and Detective Lewis were invited to an unusual gathering last weekend.”
Tom remembered the invitation, which had arrived via FedEx at work.
“Some sort of gameshow thing,” Tom said. “Win a million dollars or something like that.”
“Did you discuss it with your partner?”
Tom hadn’t. At least, not in depth. He and Roy had each gotten identical invitations, but they’d been working a gang hit, interrogating seven members of the Latin Kings over a period of four days, and he’d forgotten about the FedEx ten seconds after it arrived. After making the arrest, Roy had taken leave, mentioning he might check the invite out.
As far as Tom could recall, it was for some stupid reality show contest. Tom didn’t need the money, and he certainly didn’t want the fame. He preferred to keep to himself. One of the things he hated most about Joan’s work was the parties he was forced to attend when he visited her. All those Hollywood phonies, each trying to shine brighter than the next. Joan never acted that way, but it seemed almost every single one of her friends did.
“We spoke about it for less than a minute. Roy wondered if it was a scam. I had no interest. Didn’t even read the whole thing.”
“Do you have the invitation here?”
Tom had it on the desk in his bedroom, but something made him withhold that info.
“Not sure where it is.”
“Can you find it?”
“Why?”
The Feebies exchanged a glance, then focused back on Tom. “Because it’s evidence in a possible homicide investigation.”
Tom gripped the butt of his Sig tighter. “What are you saying?”
“We have reason to believe that Roy Lewis, your partner, has been murdered.”
It had been a long time since anyone had punched Tom in the face.
This was a whole lot worse.
Cleveland, Ohio
Deb
Deb Dieter stared at the ringing phone.
Her mouth was dry, and she could feel her heart fluttering in her chest like a hummingbird was trapped in her ribcage. She began reaching for her husband to grip his arm, and then hesitated. Her walking legs—made of carbon and fitted with a microprocessor—were harder to get on than her other prosthetics, and she was torn between the need to be comforted by Mal and the need to get dressed and flee.
Flee from what? The phone? The door?
Is this wh
at my life has come to? Letting fear dictate my every move?
Deb forced herself to look at the phone. She flinched when it rang again.
Just answer it.
Do it.
Now.
But Deb couldn’t do it. She couldn’t even reach for it. She’d run marathons, fought mountain lions, and survived the Rushmore Inn. She’d even been taking a karate course, and had just advanced to 3rd Mon Kyu; Purple Belt with Red Stripe. But she couldn’t get herself to answer a telephone.
Mal seemed equally paralyzed. In many ways, his ordeal had been even worse than hers. On the rare nights she was able to fall asleep, Mal often woke her up, in the throes of a night terror, whimpering in a way that never failed to raise the hair on her arms.
The phone rang again.
And again.
Then the answering machine picked up.
“You’ve reached the Dieters, please leave a message.”
“It’s the FBI. Open the door.”
Deb managed to look over at Mal, whose expression was somewhere between terrified and confused.
“This is about West Virginia.”
The Rushmore. Most of those responsible for the atrocities committed there had died.
But there was one man, who was currently in prison.
Could he have escaped?
Deb couldn’t imagine anything worse. Her mind went into overdrive, conjuring scenarios so fast they became one big blur in her head. He got out… he’s coming for her and Mal… he’s been seen in the vicinity… he’s…
He’s the one on the phone right now, impersonating the FBI.
More pounding on the door. Deb didn’t know what to do. She felt glued to the bed. Mal was shaking so badly he wouldn’t be able to hit anything with the gun he held.
“This is extremely important,” said the voice on the answering machine. “open the door. We know you’re in there. We can see you.”
Deb jerked her head from left to right, searching the bedroom, not understanding how someone could be watching her. There was no one there, nothing at all but—
The window.
The window, over the headboard of the bed.
Mal and Deb looked up, at the small, rectangular window directly above them. The venetian blinds were closed, but there were gaps and cracks. And they were on the first floor.
Someone could be standing right there.
“Open the blinds,” the voice said. “I’m holding up my badge.”
But what if he wasn’t holding a badge? What if it was the escaped psycho, and he was holding a brick, or a crowbar, or a—
Someone rapped lightly on the window.
Deb screamed.
A flashlight appeared behind the blinds.
“Put down the gun, Mr. Dieter. We’re not going to harm you or your wife.”
Sweat had broken out over Mal’s forehead, dripping down the sides of his face. He stared at his wife, and she sensed him fighting to be brave. Gun still in his hand, Mal slowly reached for the cord to the blinds—
—and yanked them open.
Standing there was a man. Not the psycho they remembered. But a tall man in a suit, holding a cell phone in one hand, the flashlight in the other, pointing at his own face.
“I’m going to take out my badge,” he said, and his words on the machine weren’t quite synced to his lips, due to the satellite delay. “We’re here to help you.”
Deb watched, transfixed, as he slowly reached into his pocket and took out an official-looking FBI badge and ID.
Trembling, she reached for the phone and picked it up.
“Help us wi…wi… with what?” she managed, teeth chattering.
The man smiled, but it was hollow and emotionless.
“Open the door and let us in. And we’ll tell you.”
Grand Haven, Michigan
Sara
“What do you want?” she said into the phone, her voice so soft she could barely hear it.
“It’s the FBI. We’re here to help you get your son back.”
Sara blinked, then shook the cobwebs from her head. The fear she’d been feeling was replaced with something else. Something she hadn’t experienced in so long she’d forgotten what it felt like.
Hope.
“Jack?” she croaked.
“Yes, Jack. Open the door, and we can talk about it.”
“I… uh… gimme a minute.”
The fear came back, and her mind twisted in two. To have her child again would be a miracle. It would, quite literally, save her life.
But there was also a chance this was a trick. Sara knew there were bad people in the world. She’d had to endure some of the worst that humanity had to offer. This call could be connected to all the bad things from her past. Or it could be some new predator, looking for an opportunity.
As she considered her options, Sara quickly changed out of her soiled sweatpants, tossing them into the shower and shimmying into some jeans. Then she went into her kitchenette, seeking the gun. She found it on the floor, next to an old pizza box, and peeked through the curtains at the entrance to her trailer.
Two men in suits. They stared right at Sara, as if they’d anticipated her looking at them. Both held gold badges. Sara wondered if the shields were real or not, then realized it didn’t matter. They could kick in her flimsy trailer door with less energy than it took to sneeze. If these men wanted to get in, they easily could. But so far, they’d opted for the polite approach.
So maybe they were FBI and telling the truth. Or maybe they’d try to kill her. In either case, there wasn’t anything she could do to stop them. The gun she held only had one bullet in it. Sara hadn’t ever expected to use it for self-defense.
She placed her hand on the front door knob, feeling as if she were inviting trouble inside. But the reality was, no matter what they could do to her, it couldn’t be worse than what had already been done.
Sara unlocked it and opened the door.
“Can we come in?”
Sara nodded, stepping aside. She gestured to her cheap dinette set, one of the chairs wobbly. The cool, fresh air from outside made her realize how sour the smell was in her trailer, and she caught an acrid stench similar to spoiled milk. The men came in and stood there, seemingly oblivious to the mess around them. And a mess it was. Dishes piled high in the sink. Fast food wrappers strewn about. A garbage can filled to overflowing. A single strip of fly paper hanging from the overhead light, speckled with dozens of the dead.
But Sara didn’t care what they thought of the mess, or if they judged her. She just wanted to know if they were speaking the truth about Jack.
Neither man made a move to sit down. They were taller than they seemed to be when standing outside. Beefier, too. More like pro wrestlers than FBI guys.
“So, you’re in,” she forced herself to talk slowly, deliberately. “What do you want?”
“We know what happened on Rock Island.”
Sara may have flinched at that, but she still had enough liquor in her system to mask her reaction. Rock Island—which she thought of as Plincer’s Island—was the cause for her current situation.
“You went through a lot,” he continued. His eyes, and expression were blank. “But you survived. It must have been quite an ordeal.”
Sara wasn’t going to get into a conversation about the past, especially about what happened on that island. “What about Jack?”
“The government has a proposition for you. We want to help.”
The sneer formed on her lips before she could stop it. “The government? They’re the ones who took my baby.”
The agent continued. So far his partner hadn’t spoken. “Child Protective Services took Jack. You were caught doing sixty miles an hour in a thirty mile zone, and he wasn’t in a car seat.”
“I… I’d left the car seat in the house.”
“You blew a one point eight.”
Sara considered responding, but the fight had long been beaten out of her.
Yes
, she was a drunk. After Plincer’s Island, alcohol was the only thing that drowned out the nightmares. She came away from it scared and broke, and the DUI had been the final nail in her coffin of failure. Sara had to sell the house to pay for her legal fees, and still spent six months in jail for wreckless endangerment. When she got out, and was unable to get Jack back from the foster home the state had stuck him in. She was a single parent with a criminal record, no means of employment, and many—including the judge—were dubious of her role in the Rock Island Massacre. Without money for a good lawyer, Sara went back to drinking, winding up in this shit hole trailer park, trying to find the guts to eat that single bullet.
“How can you help?” she whispered.
“There’s an experimental program, going on this weekend. If you volunteer for it, you’ll be given one million dollars, and we’ll work with CPS to get your son back.”
Sara snorted. “A million bucks, and Jack? This is a joke, right?”
“It’s for real, Sara.” He reached into his jacket, took out some folded papers. “The details are in here.”
“What’s the program? Some sort of rehab?” As she said it Sara found herself looking around the kitchenette for any alcohol that might be left over.
The silent one finally spoke. “It’s about fear.”
Sara stared at him, and his smile was chilling.
“Fear?”
The other one continued. “You understand fear better than most people. The government wants to study how you react to fear.”
“Why?”
“Understanding fear can lead to controlling it. Certainly you can see the advantages to that.”
Sara’s brow crinkled. “So this is a fear study? Do they hook me up to some machine, then make me watch scary movies?”
The quiet one let out a chuckle. “Oh, it’s a bit more complicated than that…”
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Frank
“You’re not the Secret Service,” Dr. Frank Belgium said, scrutinizing the proffered badges that quite distinctly spelled out FBI.
“Our friends in the Secret Service told us where to find you,” said the agent on the right. His breath smelled medicinal. “We’re all Feds, so does it really matter?”