by Cat Connor
He nodded.
“Drive safe.”
“Sleep well.”’
I was at the end of the hallway before I heard his door click shut. When I got in the car my phone rang. Sam.
“Yep?”
“You came out here to see me instead of calling.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Take two.” He paused. “S’up, Chicky?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
I heard so clearly the ‘Neighborhood’ song from Sesame Street that I was sure Sam and Noel heard it too.
“Sam, it’s cool.”
I just needed him to lay eyes on me. So someone who wasn’t with me in Lexington knew I was okay and not flipping in any shape or form.
“Get Delta fired up over the meat packs. I’ll see you in a few.”
“All right, Chicky.” He didn’t sound convinced. “You’re okay?”
“I’m awesome.”
“Go team.”
He hung up.
Apart from a private concert that comprised Elvis singing ’Wooden Heart’, ‘Return to Sender’, ‘It’s Now or Never’, and ‘Promised Land’, I had brief appearances by The Eagles with ‘Love Will Keep Us Alive’, and Bread singing ‘Baby I’m a Want You.’ And just when I thought it was over, Kevin Costner and Modern West tossed a little fun into the mix by playing ‘All I Want from You.’ It was an uneventful trip.
I kept my musical interludes to myself, mainly because I had no idea what to do with the songs. I got the whole ‘Return to Sender’ thing, but was clueless to make sense of the rest. We crossed the state line. I saw a sign saying ‘Welcome to West Virginia’. The jokes I’d heard as a kid came flooding back.
Welcome to West Virginia, set your clock back thirty-five years. West Virginia invented the toothbrush; if anyone else had, it’d be a teethbrush.
West Virginia where a bug zapper and a six pack is Friday night entertainment. I’m not as politically correct as I should be. One day those thoughts are going to pop right out my mouth.
Gerrard broke my contemplations wide open.
“I’ll get us a room at this motel. It’ll do as our base while we look for Fisher.”
I looked around. We were on the outskirts of a town. It didn’t look very big, or very inviting.
“Doesn’t look like there are too many places for a person to go here.” I scanned the street. “Is this the main street?”
“Looks that way.”
“Where are we?”
“Inwood.”
He closed the car door and walked over the cracked blacktop to the building marked reception.
A sign proclaiming the Oasis Motel had a vacancy blinked too fast. Maybe it was getting ready to expire. Minutes later Gerrard was back and in the car.
“They have one room, upstairs. Parking over there.” He pointed to a drab two-story cinder block building. I counted eight rooms at the bottom and another eight on top. Concrete stairs were stuck at each end of the top floor. “Unit thirteen,” Gerrard said.
“Didn’t think motels and hotels had thirteens.”
“Maybe they didn’t play Psycho up here,” he offered. Gerrard parked in the spot designated to unit thirteen.
“I feel better already,” I replied, unfastening my seat belt and exiting the car.
We took our bags from the trunk and climbed the steep stairs.
Thirteen was possibly the most depressing room I’d ever entered. There was no joy in knowing we’d be sleeping there. Bags stowed and facilities checked out, we left to try to find Ben Fisher.
From what Noel had discovered, Fisher was a researcher, one of the people responsible for the kidnapping and subsequent murder of Gabrielle Conway, the wife of a naval lawyer. He was a hands-on type researcher. He also found evidence to suggest Fisher hired the shooter who opened fire on me at the Blake Lane 7-Eleven. They were known associates. More evidence came forth during Gerrard’s investigation than the police had discovered. The Blake Lane shooter was an ex-marine sniper, Jim Sanderson. He’d been working as a gun for hire since leaving the marines in 2006. Extensive Intel on all Conway women in the DC area meant Sanderson didn’t pick his spot across from the 7-Eleven by accident. They knew I’d either stop there or drive by there at some stage during the early evening.
I fancied laying my hands on Fisher, preferably with fingers interlocked around his scrawny neck. We didn’t know if he had killed Greer Conway, Robin Conway, or Gillian Conway, but if I had to guess I’d say he at least provided information that led to the murders.
Our first port of call was the local convenience store. We flashed badges and photographs. Both drew blank stares. This wasn’t doing much to improve my childhood opinion of the state.
Moving on.
The same exciting welcome was offered up at the drug store, pet store, book store, and diner. I noted we’d passed three churches. Three within a mile, all on the main road. Our next stop was a bar. The owner had a more novel approach to our questions. They kicked us out. Something about not serving pigs. Not very Christian. My guess was we intimidated him with our surprising number of teeth and sweet smelling breath.
The second bar was a mite friendlier. We were allowed to tip the pole dancer; for every tip the owner allowed us to show our photo to another patron. I suspected the pole dancer was the owner’s nana. In a dark corner I noticed a youngish woman. She wasn’t anyone’s grandma. While Noel was otherwise occupied with the geriatric pole dancer and patrons at the bar, I wandered over.
“Hey,” I said, showing her my badge. “Can you I ask you a few questions?”
“Whatever,” she replied, shrugging.
I laid pictures on the table. She recognized a picture all right, but not Fisher. She recognized the murder victim, Gabrielle Conway.
“I saw her at the motel on the edge of town.”
“Oasis?”
“Yeah.”
Our motel.
“It was over a week ago.”
“Was she with anyone?” I handed her a twenty.
She palmed the cash. “Two men, one Arab, and one scrawny white boy.”
“You didn’t recognize the scrawny white boy?”
She sneered. “I don’t get out much on account of my aversion to daylight.”
Oh, how interesting.
“You saw her though?” I tapped the picture of Gabrielle.
“Sure, it was night time.”
“You positive it was her?”
“Yeah. I was visiting a friend at the motel. I saw her, and two men, but never saw the white one’s face.”
Got it now: Her friend’s name was John.
“She seem happy?”
“Not really. But ya gotta look at it in context. If I was staying at the Oasis I wouldn’t be all giggly either.”
Fair enough. I was so looking forward to nightfall; if this is what comes out during the day, nighttime should be a real treat.
“You think the white boy could still be there?”
“Maybe. He didn’t look like he had much going for him.”
Judgmental or maybe just realistic.
“Thank you,” I replied, sliding another twenty to her.
“Thank you,” she said, stuffing the money into her ample bosom. I felt it was quite safe there.
We walked back to the motel. Each of us searching for reasons not to go back just yet. We resorted to window shopping at the local pawn shop.
We decided to eat in the diner before going back. It seemed smart to stop in at the motel reception and ask if anyone knew Ben Fisher. His name drew familiar blank stares. I showed his picture and that of Gabrielle Conway.
“Her,” the woman said. “She stayed here for four days.”
“Really?”
“Maybe.”
“Did she or didn’t she?”
“She paid for four nights up front.”
“How?”
“Cash.”
“She sign in?”
“She was with an
Arab.”
I pulled my phone and flicked through some pictures until I found one of Arbab and one of his buddy. “Him or him?” I asked, showing her.
“The second one.”
“Thank you.”
“Is Ben Fisher staying here?” I scrolled back and showed her the photos again. Showing her a picture of Fisher.
“Oh, the skinny boy. It might have been him with the Arab. I couldn’t be sure.”
I wasn’t in the mood to pay out.
“Okay, thanks.”
We walked away leaving her a tad dumbstruck. As we climbed the steep stairs Noel asked about the photos of Arbab on my phone.
I had no escape.
It seemed smarter to wait until we were in the room before I explained my interesting past to him.
“I did my homework.” I just tossed it out there hoping he’d leave it.
“Nice try.”
“I know people.”
“Yeah, me too, and they tell me you have a classified past.”
It was hard not to smile. “Hidden depths.”
“We need to talk,” Noel said as he swung open our motel door and ushered me in.
I let out a long sigh. As I breathed in, I smelled something I hadn’t noticed earlier. A waft of Axe body spray. It floated down beside the bed toward the bathroom. It wasn’t Noel. He didn’t wear Axe. Axe was more a younger man’s smell. Joey wore it. The brand was aimed at men from eighteen to twenty-four, the marinating age group who haven’t yet learned that less is more. I dismissed it as some previous guest’s residue.
“My past no longer has relevance in your case. Fisher is not connected to my past – he is solely someone of interest to you.”
“I don’t know that for sure. How can you?”
Another sigh escaped.
I sat on the edge of the bed and prepared myself to tell him about Arbab and New Zealand, and his rendition.
“This stays between us. You cannot include any of this information in your investigation.”
“Any other conditions you’d like to impose?”
“You do realize if I tell you – I have to kill you?”
“Always the wiseass.”
“All right, listen up I will say this once only.” I stretched my legs out then pulled them up under me. “A long time ago, I was seconded to a special joint task force – I went in as a deep-cover operative. No one in the task force knew who I really was. It looked like someone within the force was playing for both teams.”
“You were a mole?”
“I was.”
“Dangerous.”
“Very.”
“It appeared that my partner was killed by the terrorists we were trying to find. I spent a few weeks trying to locate the camp. Never found it. My guide was not very helpful. About six weeks after I returned home, Tierney called me to his office. My guide had triggered several flags and was in New Zealand. I left at once to assist in the rendition.” I took a breath. “Ameer was found in an apartment with another man, Arbab. I sent Arbab back to his father in Saudi – in disgrace. This action alone saved his miserable life. There was an explosion, but not before I saw Dion Edwards’ face at the door of the apartment. He was my former partner, believed killed, and now obviously working for a terror organization. I was killed in the explosion along with four Americans and Ameer. We believe Dion Edwards survived.”
“He’s on the FBI most wanted list, also on our top ten terror watch list.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Arbab came after you?”
“Yes. He may have seen someone who looked a bit like the woman he knew as Demelza in some trashy magazine in the last six months, which may have sparked his interest.” My phone went and I welcomed the interruption. Noel was still trying to digest my confession.
“Yo, Chicky.”
“Sam, whatcha got?”
“A crime scene. Could be connected to the boxes of ass.”
“Yes!” I realized I was possibly overly exuberant in my response.
Noel’s phone buzzed like a dying blowfly.
He checked the displayed number before answering it. After about twenty seconds he hung up and stood up.
“There’s been activity on Fisher’s bank account in Maryland.”
“He’s not here.”
He nodded. We started packing up our stuff. Maryland was our next stop. I hoped the motels, wherever we ended up, were better.
It seemed that Conway was held at the motel before her death. Why, was the mystery. Why take her out of state and hold her for days? Why not just kill her?
“What room was Conway held in?”
Noel shrugged and hoisted his bag over his shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps we should know.” I took my bag and headed for the door. I grabbed the handle and swung open the door. On the other side of the room I heard a faint pop.
“Noel!” I hollered, diving down the stairs, as the windows above me blew out, sending shards of glass all over the blacktop and vehicles below. I was against the building, as glass rained down followed by pieces of concrete, wooden frames and cloth. A piece of fabric sailed by me. Curtain. It was curtain. Flames touched the railing above, reaching out like tentacles from the building.
“Noel!” I yelled. Under the roar of fire, and ringing in my ears from the explosion, I heard a croak.
“El!”
I flew down the last few stairs and around the corner. A hand grabbed my foot from under the stairs.
Noel.
“How bad are you hurt?” I asked, looking down at him. He was sitting in an awkward position. The weak light from the ancient motel sign caused the glass shards over the ground to sparkle, but didn’t give me enough light to see by. I pulled a small flashlight from my belt and shone it on Noel. Blood dripped down his face and one arm. The other arm was cradled against his body.
He grinned. “I dove over the banister; think I did my shoulder in.”
“Better than landing on your head,” I replied, taking my phone and calling emergency service.
My bag was on the stairs. I pulled it through and opened it up; with the torch in my mouth I searched for a first aid kit. I took wound pads and tape – checked for glass in the large cut on his arm, then wrapped it as tight as I could. His head proved more difficult. A piece of glass was sticking out of his scalp.
“You have glass in your head, I can’t take it out. We’ll let the ER handle that. How does your shoulder feel?”
“I’ll live.”
“Good to know.” I kicked glass away and sat on the ground in front of him. “Want to hazard a guess as to who blew up the room?”
“Fisher. The little fuck must’ve gotten wind we were here. That means someone told him.”
I thought about the people we’d spoken to. The motel owner was last, probably not her. Could have been the ho; easy money.
With a whoosh a piece of wood fell, it smacked into the ground and sent splinters flying. People spilled out from the other motel rooms.
“He knew we were here. I doubt anyone ordered this. Arbab and his friend are en route to a black site; they’re not talking to anyone now.”
“Fisher probably doesn’t know that. Looking to score points.”
I lifted my phone and called Comms. Someone used his bank account but I doubted it was him. I put a BOLO out without knowing what kind of vehicle he was driving. My money was on some kind of pick-up truck.
“How old is Fisher?”
“Twenty-five,” Noel replied. “Why?”
“When we got back to the room I got a whiff of Axe deodorant. I hadn’t noticed it when we dropped our bags off earlier.”
“Next time you smell something, tell me.”
Sirens wound up the road. Before long I could see flashing lights; minutes later paramedics and police ran toward the building. More sirens, then fire fighters and hoses appeared.
It was bright lights, smoke, and chaos all the way.
“SSA Conway!” Someone
was calling me.
“Under here,” I hollered back.
A police officer and a paramedic appeared by my legs. The paramedic called for help to move Noel to an ambulance right away.
The police officer tapped my arm as I watched Noel being lifted onto a gurney.
“Agent Conway?”
“Yes.” I turned to face him.
“Anyone else in there?”
“No.”
“Do you know what happened?”
I fought swirling fog to focus on his words and reply. If the ground would just stay still it would be easier. Then I noticed I could feel my back. It’s not something you feel, usually. A dull fuzz was spreading from the side of my head. I pushed my hair back, trying to tuck it behind my ears. It was wet. My hands gathered my hair together, searching the length for the hair tie I thought was there. Nothing but wet hair.
I looked down, avoiding looking at my hands.
“Did you see a hair tie anywhere?”
“Agent?”
I remembered what he asked me. “I heard a quiet pop when I opened the door – next thing I knew I was halfway down the stairs being pelted by falling debris.”
Falling debris and explosions were a recurring theme in my life. You’d think I’d be used to it. The ground swayed.
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” I replied, fighting harder to stay in the present.
“Ma’am there is a lot of blood on you.” He grabbed my arm and yelled for help.
“I’m fi …”
The last thing that went through my mind was Kurt’s name.
Thirty-One
Palisades
A familiar smell told me I was safe and that I was awake. My sense of smell doesn’t work during deep sleep, yet I can recognize a scent I’ve smelled once on the wind when I’m awake. Beeping came from somewhere beside my head. Unobtrusive footsteps crossed the floor. A hand touched my shoulder.
“Welcome back,” Kurt said. “Open your eyes for me.”
“Not if you’re going to shine your evil little light in them,” I replied, staring into his blue eyes as they peered into mine. I tried to sit up.
Hands pushed my shoulders back onto the bed.
“Stay put.”
“Where’s Noel?” I looked around the room. There was no one else but us.
“He’s in surgery,” Kurt replied.