STORM SEASON

by Deb Carlin

  Cherry’s brow creased.

  “They’re not here, Taylor. I’ve talked to everyone, they are all in the room behind the lobby’s entrance. There’s a giant wood burning fireplace in there, and plenty of logs. They’ve opened the bar, there’s some water boiling for tea and hot chocolate. But everyone who went in passed by me, and I didn’t see them.”

  “Well, that is weird. Let’s go do a lap, see if they came late.”

  It took five minutes of flashing lights in strangers’ eyes to see that there was no trace of either man.

  0230 Hours

  TOO CLOSE. SURELY THE woman won’t come back, she will assume the bastard has already vacated his room.

  I remember seeing her at the cocktail party, tall, blond, aloof. Looked frigid as hell. Pretty, if you liked the ice princess type. She gave off a whiff of danger, her eyes watching every move in the room. A cop, for sure. I’ve seen too many in my day not to be able to pick them from the crowd.

  Florian is whimpering again. I kick him in the ribs. “Shut up, old man. We are not finished.”

  He is missing part of a finger, a play I wasn’t planning to have to employ so early in our friendly chat. But he was not taking me seriously, so I had to make a point. It was the tip of his pinky, just a quick snip of the shears, but bloody, for all that.

  I flash the light in his eyes, his pupils hurriedly shrink. He moans again.

  “I will take the gag out if you promise to cooperate. To tell me what I want to know.”

  A nod.

  “If you don’t cooperate, there will be more fingers. Then toes, and hands, followed by your feet. Tu comprends? Do you understand?”

  Another nod. I swear his skin pales – perhaps I’ve finally made my point.

  I remove the gag, dragging it down over his chin. He gulps air. “They will come back. You can’t get away with this.”

  “How disappointing. Crétin. Maudite vache. Do you not know who I am?”

  He looks, uncomprehending. He does not know me, in the darkness, in his confusion. Granted, I’m still in the brown wig from earlier, the dark contacts. A small adjustment to my nose.

  I pull the wig from my head, and he gasps.

  But it is not in recognition, it is in pain. He has passed out. I forget his age. He will not last the night at this rate. I must slow down.

  His words penetrate. They will come back.

  They will. I should move him. But where?

  My finger taps against my thigh, and I hear his intake of breath. He is awake, and recognizes that small movement. Finally, he knows who he is dealing with.

  “Mon dieu. Angelie. Angelie Delacroix. Is that you?”

  “Oui, Thierry. C’est moi. Je suis vivant, et vous êtes mort.”

  The knife slides into his ribs with ease, just above the kidneys. Not deep enough to be fatal. Not yet.

  I whisper in his ear, the words harsh, metallic on my tongue. The question I’ve been waiting two and a half decades to ask.

  “Why did you kill my father?”

  0400 Hours

  UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES. The fire was contained, and everyone was given the okay to go back to their rooms. But without power, the electronic key cards wouldn’t work. The generator that powered the rooms was damaged in the fire, so there was nothing they could do until power was restored. The hotel staff was forced to gather everyone back in the lobby near the fireplace.

  And the generator to the first floor lobby ran out of fuel just after 4:00 a.m.

  The depth of the snow was overwhelming. In just eight hours, there were at least four feet pushing up against the hotel’s front door, and it was still coming down. Ice crackled along the windows, the moaning wind fighting to gain entry into the hotel. Cracks sounded in the distance, tree limbs collapsing under the sudden weight.

  There was talk of evacuation, but Taylor knew that was a pipe dream – what were they going to do, bring a bus in? Nothing was moving, they were stuck here. And where would they go? The entire eastern seaboard was caught in the grip of the storm.

  Cherry was waiting for a maintenance man to arrive with an override master key that would allow them access to rooms 4880 and 4900. She paced the lobby, staring out into the snow. Taylor figured she knew deep down there was no help coming.

  Everyone knew something was wrong, that Thierry Florian and Ellis Stamper were missing. Whether they were in their rooms, or had left the premises and weren’t able to return, no one knew. The idea of the two men caught out in that blizzard, it was unthinkable.

  Stamper, it turned out, was also a member of the Macallan Group. He was Thierry’s assistant, though that term was a misnomer. Right hand would be more appropriate. Bodyguard might even come into play.

  Their relationship had even been speculated about once or twice, though Florian put those vulgar rumors to rest quite openly, taking a beautiful young lover who’d ended up as his wife three years earlier. Stamper had married a year later as well.

  It was their habit to get suites at hotels, ostensibly so Stamper could watch out over his boss, but for this event, the suites were booked and they’d been forced into adjoining rooms. The front desk clerk remembered their conversation clearly, and the manager had sent a fruit basket to Mr. Florian to apologize for the mix-up.

  There was no way to call either wife, to ask if she’d heard from her husband. No power, no cell service, no landlines. They were an island, in the dark and cold.

  Taylor was chomping at the bit to get into the rooms. She wasn’t in her jurisdiction or she’d be ordering people around. Instead, the hotel staff was waiting for a representative from the Sheriff’s office to show up before they opened the doors.

  Precious moments ticking away. Modern technology was fantastic until the world was plunged into the dark, and then the Middle Ages reigned supreme.

  Taylor watched the minutes pass on her Tag, catching Cherry’s eye every once in a while.

  It took people who’d become accustomed to death to have a sixth sense that this situation was very, very bad.

  0500 Hours

  “ANGELIE. YOU MUST KNOW, I did everything in my power to stop the murder. Your father, he would not listen. We begged him to stay put in Paris, that we had him covered, but he loaded up your mother and sister and you into the caravan and drove south. He thought he could protect you better than I. He was wrong.”

  “He was not wrong. He died protecting us. It was your job to keep him safe, to keep us all safe. He stole secrets for you, and you let him be gunned down. They killed my sister first, did you know that? Beatrice was six. Six, Florian, dead in my mother’s lap. Her blood dripping into my hair.”

  “Is that what you’re doing, Angelie? Systematically murdering all of the people involved in your father’s case? Yes, I heard tonight about poor Gregoire Campion. I didn’t realize you were capable of such an atrocity. You cut him into pieces and stowed his body in a duffel in his bathtub. The man was your friend, Angelie. How could you do that to him?”

  I laugh. “A friend? Campion was never my friend. He used me, like all of you. For years. His death is not on my conscience, Thierry. I did simply what I must, to gain the truth at last.”

  “Alors, Angelie, this is a pointless exercise. Murdering the minders will not bring your father back. It will not bring your family back. We did everything we could to protect them. In the end, the cause was simple. Your father trusted the wrong people.”

  Fury crowds into my chest. This is the lie Campion spewed when he was at the end. I slap Florian’s face, hard.

  “Lies. Don’t even try to justify yourself. Oncle Pierre has shared the file with me, Thierry. I know exactly what happened. I know how you sold my father out to the Iraqis. He was the only one who had the capability to help them build their bloody bombs, and you told them where he would be that day.”

  His voice is soft in the darkness. “No, Angelie. That is wrong. We would never give your father to them. Never.”

  Florian goes silent. Something is no
t right here, I can sense it. I take a lap around the dark room, trying and failing to gather my temper. The cover-up is secure, all involved have the same story. How to get the truth? What will I have to do to this master of all spies to find the answers I seek?

  “Angelie. You’ve served your country admirably for fifteen years. You’re one of the best assets we’ve ever had. Your future is bright. Why are you doing this? Why now, after all these years?”

  I pull the crumbled paper from my purse. So many lives, so many sacrifices, all to procure this single sheet of paper.

  I put it in front of his face, play a flashlight over the words.

  He reads, then chews on his lip before he calmly sits back on the floor.

  “Don’t do this,” he says, and there is no pleading in his voice, not like the others, who begged for their lives. Florian won’t beg. He will find a way to go down swinging. He taught me that, at least.

  I can’t keep the tears from my voice. “I know, Thierry. I know it all.”

  0600 Hours

  THE SKIES OUTSIDE WERE dark gray. No power, but not the dead of night blackness from earlier. The mood in the room lightened, especially when the staff began handing out apples and bananas and granola bars, and stoked up the fire. If they just had some marshmallows, this would be more like a damn camping trip.

  Taylor looked at her watch for the millionth time. “It’s nearly 6:00, Cherry. There’s no more time to waste. It’s been too long.”

  Cherry was pale, and exhausted. “I agree. I’m worried sick. Let’s get the manager on duty.”

  At her wave, the hotel’s manager on duty, a burly man named Fred, approached.

  “Ma’am? Bad news. Our mechanic isn’t going to make it. The Sheriff’s office is responding to a huge wreck, buncha cars on the highway crashed, they can’t spare anyone for at least an hour. We’re stuck, I’m afraid.”

  “Fred, I’m sorry, but we need in those rooms. The Freedom Conference will pay for the damages we’re about to incur.”

  “What?”

  Taylor chimed in. “Can you let us into your basement? We’re going to need some tools. A wrench and a screwdriver, for starters. A crowbar if you have it.”

  Fred’s brown creased. “Um, ma’am, just what are you planning to do?”

  Taylor smiled. “Easy. Bust the locks off the doors.”

  “I can’t let you do that. Those locks cost—”

  “It doesn’t matter. There could be two lives at stake in there, and we’re not going to wait any longer.”

  “I gotta talk to the hotel property manager, they’re in Denver. They own the resort. I can’t let you—”

  Taylor got in his face, her voice stern. “Fred, we aren’t going to wait. We will take responsibility. I’m a cop, you place the blame squarely on my head and I’ll cover your back. The tools, now.”

  People always backed down when she used that tone. Fred grabbed a flashlight and, without a word, headed toward the back stairs.

  “I’ve got this, Cherry. I’ll be back for you in a minute.”

  It took five to gather the tools she thought she’d need. Fred wasn’t talking, just shined the big industrial flashlight where Taylor asked. She’d scared him enough that he was keeping his mouth shut; she assumed he probably had a record he hadn’t disclosed, something minor, and didn’t want his bosses getting wind of his issues. She met guys like him in her investigations all the time. DUIs, late on their child support, warrants for traffic violations, gambling debts. Stupid stuff that should just be handled. Instead, they furtively tried to hide their misdeeds.

  “Let’s go up. I might need your muscle,” she said, and Fred sullenly shined the light on the stairs for her. When they reached the first floor lobby, he stopped cold.

  “You know what? You’re on your own from here. I ain’t going up there. I’m not going to be held responsible for this.”

  Of course not.

  “A noble speech, Fred. Thanks for doing the right thing.”

  She left him gaping after her and found Cherry warming her hands near the fireplace. “I’ve got everything. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” she said simply, and fell in line behind Taylor. The whispers started as they left the room.

  As they climbed the stairs, the wind shrieked harder around the building, and its violent passage heightened the echoes of their footfalls in the darkened stairwell. It was even creepier than last night – Taylor sensed the storm was peaking. Hopefully, this would be the worst of it.

  The fourth floor was eerily quiet. Once the stairwell door was shut, the wind’s fury was muffled a bit.

  The two women walked quickly down the hall. They stopped at Stamper’s room first.

  Taylor didn’t move for a moment, just breathed deeply. All the hair stood up on the back of her neck. Something was different. Something was wrong.

  “Do you smell that?”

  Cherry nodded. She’d been around enough destruction, enough death, to recognize the scent.

  “Blood,” she whispered.

  Taylor nodded. This wasn’t going to end well, she could just feel it.

  She took the crowbar to the door, not caring about the damage she was inflicting. With a great wrenching groan, the lock pulled free of the door. The metal warped and Taylor used the screwdriver to wedge the tongue out of the bolt. It still didn’t free, so she gave it a strong kick, and the door latch popped free.

  She drew her weapon, took a flashlight from Cherry and cross-armed the light under her shooting hand, the outside corners of each wrist meeting in a kiss.

  The room was dark, the curtains pulled closed. Taylor swung the light around the room until she saw the body. The coppery tang of blood, a scent Taylor was much too familiar with, grew stronger the nearer she got to the bed.

  Their worst fears, confirmed.

  Cherry gasped aloud when she saw the neat hole in Ellis Stamper’s forehead. The greatest damage was to the back of his skull, which had a massive hole in it where the bullet exited.

  “Jesus. He’s been executed.”

  Taylor said nothing, just moved the flashlight around the room, taking in the scene. He was naked on the bed, the sheets twisted. Underlying the blood was the scent of musk. Taylor approached the body, shined her flashlight up and down the length of him. There was a spent condom in the trashcan next to the bed.

  “He had company.”

  Cherry joined her. “Conference sex. Happens all the time. We should make sure this doesn’t get back to his wife.” She reached for the condom; Taylor stopped her.

  “What are you doing? We don’t touch anything. If you persist I’ll escort you from the room. Do you understand?”

  Cherry gave Taylor a sad little smile. “I was COS for twenty years. My first responsibility is to my people.”

  “Not to the law, to justice? You’re willing to cover this up? Whoever he screwed most likely killed him.”

  “This will ruin him. His family, his honor—”

  “Cherry, the man’s dead. I daresay he’s already ruined. Let’s worry about soothing hurt feelings if the time comes. There’s DNA on that condom, a piece of the puzzle we can’t pretend doesn’t exist. Get it?”

  “Cops. Always afraid to do the right thing.” There was a note of exasperated humor in Cherry’s voice, which was a good thing, but Taylor gave her a baleful eye anyway, and she moved away from the bed.

  The flashlight pummeled the darkness once more, and Taylor spied the connecting door to the next room. She thought about the room set up, realized it went to 4900.

  “Cherry, look. This goes into Florian’s room. Easier to get through this than tearing the electronic lock off the other door.”

  “I agree. But Taylor, be careful.”

  “Careful is my middle name.”

  Taylor eased the door open with her shoulder; it wasn’t locked, or fully closed. Unlocked she could understand; if Stamper was Florian’s bodyguard, he would need access to the room. And if the rumors were true, and th
ey were lovers? That logic was sound; the used condom spoke volumes. Could Florian have shot his lover in a fit of rage, then left the hotel?

  On the surface, that felt plausible, though not exactly right. Taylor hadn’t gotten the violent vibe from Florian; he seemed more like an earnest schoolteacher than a bully.

  She shone the flashlight closer on the lock. There were scratches, like an impatient thief had jimmied it open. So much for that theory.

  She took a deep breath and called his name quietly.

  “Mr. Florian?”

  Silence.

  “Shine the light around, Taylor.”

  She did, not surprised to find the room empty.

  0615 Hours

  FLORIAN HAS FAINTED, AGAIN. Before he succumbed to the pain, he was talking, but not saying the things I needed to hear. There are answers here, I know it. My father was not a traitor, my family did not have to die. My many years of espionage have taught me well; eventually, everyone breaks. Watching Florian bleed and cry and lie isn’t enough. I will speed up the process.

  I go to the bathroom, gather a handful of water from the sink. The stream sputters and runs out as I watch. The room is cold, my hands are clumsy in the dark. Without the power, this is more difficult than I planned. The leads tied to Florian’s chest and testicles will not work without electricity, and the fear of pain will not suffice. There has to be actual stimulus to coerce statements. Which means I’m back to the knife.

  I splash the meager handful of water in his face, but it is enough. He sputters and his eyes open. I stand with my arms crossed, waiting for him to again register who I am, and why we are here.

  “Angelie,” he moans.

  I drop to my knees, cajoling now, friendly.

  “Talk to me, Thierry. Tell me what I need to know.”

  I wrap his wounds, binding them against the bleeding. It will feel better that way. He head lolls against me, I smell his fear. The infamous Thierry Florian, helpless and scared.

  “That is all I have, Angelie. I know nothing else.”