by Cat Connor
Sandra knocked on the doorframe then walked over to my desk.
“E-tickets already sent to your phones. Hard copies can be picked up from my desk on your way out. Visas approved. State Department is aware and will assist with whatever you need.”
A shimmering image appeared, suspended in the air, above everyone. I watched with fascination: two young women escorted to a waiting van by four balaclava-clad men. The women appeared unwilling but weren’t struggling; I couldn’t see their faces. The men doing the herding were armed and everyone had heads. As they pushed one of the women into the back of the van, she looked up and I recognized her as the woman from the abandoned factory. The second young woman hit the man holding her arm and made a break for freedom. Short-lived. Another male caught her and forced her into the van affording me a glimpse of her face. The women could’ve been sisters. The image faded from left to right.
“Ellie?” Kurt said.
I blinked. Sandra watched me. Kurt leaned over my desk. Sam and Lee frowned. Something was up.
“What?”
“Did you hear Sandra?” Kurt asked.
“I don’t know. What’d she say?”
He stood up straight and ordered everyone from my office.
Really? Unnecessary.
He shut my door. “What happened?” Kurt asked, beckoning me to walk to him.
“I was thinking,” I replied. “This is overkill. I’m okay.”
“You weren’t thinking, Ellie. You were looking at something. Watching something.”
I steadied my writhing innards. “I’m okay, Kurt. Don’t go all doc on me now. I am okay.”
“It’s part of my job description. In case you forgot, it is Doctor Henderson not just SSA Henderson.”
There was no forgetting. Ever. His eyes penetrated mine. I felt them searching for clues, probing my brain, looking for a reason that made medical sense. I noticed his hand reach into his pocket.
“Take your hand out of your pocket. If that horrid little freaking flashlight of yours comes near my eyes, you will pay …”
He smiled and left the flashlight in his pocket.
Wise man.
“Do you have a headache?”
“No.”
“Holes in your vision?”
“No.”
“Flashing lights?”
I smiled. “I’m okay. I promise.”
He sighed. “Then what happened? Because from this side, it looked very like something I’ve seen before.” He peered into my eyes harder. “In Lexington.”
No, not Lexington.
“I’m not living in two worlds. My memory is intact.” As far as I could ascertain.
“I’m waiting for your explanation.”
I knew I had to tell him something. “A dragonfly. I saw a dragonfly.”
He glanced around the room. “We’re on the fifth floor and the windows are shut.”
“Must’ve been outside, a shadow or something.”
His eyes narrowed, disbelief flooded his voice, “A dragonfly? That’s all?”
“Yeah.”
Sure, that’s all. Certainly didn’t see two women forced into a van at gunpoint. That’d be nuts. Just like I didn’t recognize the woman getting into the van as the one we rescued on Friday.
“You got some migraine Synergy with you?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you should use it. Just in case.”
There was no point arguing. I took the vial from my drawer, tipped a few drops into my hands, rubbed them together, cupped my hands and inhaled the vapors. It was a little trick I learned to make the inhalation more effective. If I told him what I thought I saw, he’d schedule an emergency MRI. Synergy was easier.
“You want to continue the briefing?” Kurt asked.
“We’ll do it later. We’ve got seventeen hours of flight time. We can do it then.” I screwed the top onto the Synergy and dropped it into my drawer. “Send everyone home to pack.”
“You too, go home.”
Kurt opened the door. He paused and turned back to me. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Absolutely.”
No, not at all.
Four
Turning Tables.
It was early evening when I lay on my bed with my phone in my hand in front of me.
Mitch smiled at me from the screen as I told him about our upcoming trip.
“New Zealand again?”
“Yep.”
“Don’t suppose it will be as much fun as our trip?”
“Nope, don’t suppose it will. For one thing, I won’t be in Marlborough and for another you won’t be there.”
His smile widened. “It was good, wasn’t it?”
Yes, it was.
I nodded and hid a yawn behind my hand.
“Tired, El?”
“Little bit.” Another yawn, “Might be a messy case.” I didn’t want to think about New Zealand or the case. I wanted distraction. Desperation crept in. “How’s work?”
“Really, you want one of my work stories?”
“Yeah, go on.”
“Remember the other day I said my printer wasn’t working?”
“Uh huh.”
Mitch launched into a story about how the IT guy came to fix his printer. I covered a yawn with my hand but he caught me.
“Am I boring you?”
“No, life is short and I was wondering if is there was point to this story … and please tell me it’s not that the IT guy fixed your printer.”
He smiled, “Have you heard the one about the pig?”
“The pig who fixed the printer?”
“No, the pig who walked into a bar.”
“Enlighten me.” Anything is better than more work stories.
“A little pig walks into a bar, orders a drink and then asks directions to the bathroom. The barman tells him and the pig hurries off to relieve himself. A second little pig comes in, orders a drink and asks for the bathroom. Again the barman tells the pig where to go and the pig hurries away. A third little pig then appears and orders a drink. ‘I suppose you’ll want to know where the toilets are,’ says the barman. ‘No,’ replies the pig. ‘I’m the one that goes wee-wee-wee all the way home.’”
Laughter trickled over my phone, covering Mitch in sparkling chuckles.
”That was much better than one of your work stories!”
“I thought that was a good one,” he replied with a laugh. “I have another …”
“Go on then.”
“A redheaded man walks into a bar and sits next to another redheaded man. He orders a Guinness. The second redheaded man turns to him. ‘I’m guessing from that accent you’re from Dublin?’ he asks, in an Irish brogue.
‘Of course!’ the first guy exclaims, ‘here, bartender, get this guy a Guinness, too.’
Their exchange continues.
First: Lemme ask you, what street did you grow up on?
Second: St. Catherine Street. And you?
First: St. Catherine Street, same as you!
Second: Here, bartender, get this guy a Jameson! What school did you go to?
First: St. Joseph’s Boy's Academy.
Second: Son of a bitch, I went to St. Joe’s too! Bartender, get this guy a Jameson!
This continues, as they find they had the same teachers and knew the same neighborhood kids. They get louder and drunker until a guy at the other end of the bar asks the bartender, ‘What’s up with those two?’
The bartender shrugs and says, ‘It's the O’Shaughnessy twins, they’re drunk again.’”
“No more, Mitch! I don’t think I can cope with another joke.”
“When do you leave?” he asked changing the subject.
I picked up the paperwork next to me and read it.
“Flying into San Fran tomorrow.” I liked SFO more than LAX.
“When do you get to SFO?”
“Nine in the morning.” I heard his fingers tapping on keys.
“You’re not flyin
g out again until three?” He’d already checked out our connecting flight. “Presuming you’re on the next flight to New Zealand, the three p.m.”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Long day at the airport.”
I smiled. It was impossible not to; he was smiling at me.
The screen in my hand blurred. Mitch’s face fell apart and reassembled as four men forced a young woman to sign a piece of paper. Beyond the men, another young woman cowered by a wall. The same women again.
Mitch’s voice shot through the image. Cracks appeared. The people crumbled into a pile of pixels.
“Hey! Ellie!”
“Uh huh,” I replied, shaking my head to dislodge the last remnants of the picture.
“I lost you for a few seconds. You okay?”
“Of course.”
“Where were you?”
“Wishing you were coming to New Zealand with me,” I said with a smile.
“You are all right?”
“Yes. Just daydreaming about hanging out with you.”
His smile faltered then cemented. “That’s always fun. No doubt about it. But that’s not what that was …”
Crap. With powers of observation like his, he should be in law enforcement.
“I don’t know what it was. I saw something. Probably nothing,” I said. Hoping it sounded like nothing, because I wasn’t convinced.
“Are you really okay?”
“Yep, I’m okay.”
“We’ll talk soon. And we’ll talk about whatever that was,” Mitch replied. He was still smiling but didn’t look convinced.
“Talk in a few days,” I said.
“Looking forward to it,” Mitch replied. “I’ll have more work stories for you by then.”
“Can’t wait.”
I hung up, reached into my nightstand and hooked out a notebook and pen.
Twice in one afternoon, I’d seen things I shouldn’t be able to see. Twice I’d seen the same women. Writing it down seemed smart. Starting with the women, men with guns and the nondescript white van. I wrote fast. When I read the paragraphs back, I knew it was something. I also knew it somehow connected to the heads. But how and who were the men and why take the women? As usual I had more questions than answers.
I read it again. Nothing jumped out and screamed. That was a blessing. There’s no telling how my hallucinations will manifest. As yet there’d been no screaming ones. No songs emerged as a soundtrack. I leaned back and closed my eyes. The pictures weren’t random. A new case, then images – definitely linked. I just needed to figure out how. My eyes pinged open.
I scrolled through contacts in my phone and found the CI who’d called me with the tip-off about the factory and made a call. “Hey, it’s Ellie. Can you talk?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know about the woman at the factory?”
“Nothing. I told you everything.”
“No, you didn’t but you’re going to. Meet me in forty minutes at Vienna Metro.”
“I … um … I can’t … it’s dangerous.”
“Suit yourself, but this avenue of income is about to dry up.”
He paused. I could almost hear his mind working. “All right. Jeez. Vienna Metro. Where exactly?”
“Up top. By the entrance to the platform.”
I hung up, rolled off the bed and dragged on my boots. On my way out of the house, I made another phone call. “Kurt, Vienna Metro. Now.”
“Why?”
“CI. Think he neglected to give me all the information regarding the factory.”
“I’ll see you there.”
I parked my car and walked across the dark street to the entrance of the metro station in Vienna. From the corner of my eye, I saw Kurt walking toward me. Unmistakable even at night. He fell into step with me.
“Who is the CI?” Kurt asked.
“Arnie Arthur. His friends, using the term loosely, call him Double A.”
“Slimy little guy who was mixed up with a trafficking ring a few years back?”
“That’s him.”
My eyes scanned the area as we crossed the covered walkway and entered the station. No sign of Double A. I’d planned to be there well before him. We stood with our backs against a wall, facing the entrance, waiting.
Ten minutes had passed before I saw a shape approach the doors at the far end of the walkway.
“We’ve got company,” I said, pushing myself off the wall and standing straighter.
“I see,” Kurt replied.
Watching Arnie zigzag across the walkway made me feel ill.
“Is he drunk?” I whispered to Kurt.
“Nope, don’t think so. He’s zigzagging, not staggering. Maybe he thinks he’s being evasive.”
I heard the smile in Kurt’s voice.
“Hey, Arnie. Just walk,” I called. “You look like a candidate for a short bus.”
He stopped and stared at me.
Now what?
Glancing over his shoulder once, he started to run toward us. Kurt grabbed my arm and pulled me around the corner. I could see Arnie barreling toward our position.
“I don’t like this,” Kurt whispered.
Panic escalated on Arnie’s face.
“Rob …” He never finished his sentence. Arnie fell. Red mist billowed from him. His head smacked into the concrete with a sickening thud. Dust puffed into the air as bullets hit the wall near us.
“Bad,” I muttered. “Very bad.”
I seated my Glock firmly in my right hand. Gunshots came from the end of the walkway then from the windows. Glass flew into the internal spaces. At least there were no people around. We needed another way out. Stairs. I tapped Kurt’s shoulder.
“There are stairs, over there.” I pointed to a hallway that led to toilets. A rumble came from below us. A train.
Oh crap. Trains mean commuters.
Which meant buses and taxis would pull up any minute by the parking lot. From the direction of the platform, I heard, “Orange line. Vienna. Doors opening, right side.”
People would spew onto the concourse any minute. How many people would get off the late train, I had zero clue. No civilian casualties seemed a good rule to go by.
More bullets hit the wall. A few rounds flew past us into the great beyond. No cover. We’d have to cross the gunfire to get to the stairs.
Crap. Pinned down. Not ideal. What about into the station and down to the platform? Same problem but more cover.
“Can you see the shooter?” Kurt asked.
“No. No target.”
“Parking lot. Rifle,” Kurt said. “Whoever it is, they’re sure not using a handgun.”
“We’re fucked. Calling in backup,” I said, leaning hard against the wall as another round flew into the open space in front of us. “We need to stop people coming up here from the platform.”
Kurt nodded. I made a call to SWAT.
“What’s my favorite Special Agent up to?” Andrews asked as he recognized my voice.
“Oh, you know, being shot at by some dickwad with a rifle at Vienna Metro.”
“You alone?”
“With Henderson.”
“Watch your six, Conway, cavalry is inbound.”
I hung up and shoved my phone back in my pocket.
“We good?” Kurt asked as another round hit the wall.
“They’re coming.”
“You reckon we can make it to the stairs and get out?” Kurt leaned out from the wall. Another round blasted by. I pushed him back. Another round fired. Different angle.
“Depends whether you want to end up as Swiss cheese or not.” I watched the walkway. “I think there are two shooters.”
I heard people. Walking. Talking. Bustling along. No clue what they were walking into, just keen to get home.
Taking a deep breath, I swung out from my covered position and fired two rounds down the tunnel, jumping back beside Kurt before return volleys smashed the last of the glass in the windows. Now all the disembarking passengers knew th
ere was something wrong. I hoped they’d immediately go back down to the platform. What I hoped and what people did were often at odds.
Footsteps kept coming. More rounds smashed into the wall sending dust and plaster flying.
I yelled, “Federal Agents. Go back down to the platform!”
The footsteps became stumbles and panic.
“Calmly, go back!” Kurt hollered. “Keep down, take care of each other.”
Panicked screams and cries wafted into the night.
I checked my watch. An eerie silence fell as the commuters descended to the safety of the platform below.
We waited. Every few minutes, more bullets fired in our direction.
Tiresome.
“What do you suppose Arnie meant by Rob?” I wondered aloud.
“Know any Robs?” Kurt asked leaning next to me.
“Not that I can think of. Rob. He’s never mentioned anyone called Rob. What was he trying to tell me? Rob. Robert. Robbie. Robber. Nope, coming up blank.”
“We’ll grab his cell phone when we can, might be a Rob in that somewhere.”
I nodded. “Worth a look.”
Rotor blades thwacked the air outside. A bright light illuminated the interior of the building we were in. Gunfire erupted. Semi-automatic. Rifle shots. More semi-automatic fire. Booted feet ran, dark shapes headed toward us down the walkway, flashlights almost blinded me. Familiar voices and sounds brought a level of comfort and security that few outsiders understood. Men in tactical gear equal safety in my world.
“Conway!” Andrews called.
“Down here,” I yelled back.
Feet pounded the concrete floor, double time.
“You good?” Andrews asked, coming to a stop in front of us. Men on either side of him scanned the area for potential trouble.
“We’re fine. Thanks. Civilians down on the platform.”
“I’ll send a couple of men down to explain and make sure everyone’s okay,” he said. He pressed his shoulder and gave orders to his team. A few seconds later his attention turned back to us. “You need anything?”
“Just to get to the dead guy,” Kurt replied.
“Go for it,” Andrews replied. “Both shooters have been detained.”
Kurt hurried to the body as I watched from where I stood. He patted Arnie’s pockets. Removing a wallet, cell phone, car keys … and a little baggie. He held the baggie up to the minimal light.