by Peter Darley
She paused in the grip of shame, disgust, and absolute rage.
No, no. You’re not doing it right, Belinda.
Her breathing deepened, paralyzing her.
Let me do it for you.
She had been a child of only thirteen, lonely, and without emotional support. He’d taken advantage of that.
Her following life experiences flooded her mind. She’d suffered an inability to trust any man, leading to fleeting sexual encounters, never destined for anything more. Loneliness was always the result. She couldn’t get close to any of them.
And then there was Brandon, who had rescued her, and whom she adored. Yet he’d led her to a life of running, life-threatening danger, torture, relentless heartbreak, and constant fear.
But it had all started with Father Turney. He’d been the first in her life of dominos that pushed the next one, and the next, until the solid structure of her possible future had collapsed before it had even begun. She would not permit it to happen to another.
She heard the mumbled sound of the young girl opening her heart to Father Henry, and violently opened the confessional door. Her heart pounded with a combination of compassion and determination. “Go!”
Frightened, the young girl stood and hurried past her.
“Excuse me,” the priest said. “This was a private, spiritual moment for my parishioner. Please leave.”
An all-consuming fury infused Belinda, completely destroying her reason. She exited the confessional and tore open Father Henry’s door. “This is my ‘private spiritual moment,’ you sick bastard!” With that, she plunged her fist into his nose. The nasal bone split upon impact, causing him to recoil with blood spurting from his nostrils.
The ferocious assault continued, but Father Henry didn’t raise a hand in defense. It was as though he knew what Belinda was, and what she’d been through. “Please, forgive us,” he muttered.
Belinda’s knuckles collided with his jaw for the last time before she felt herself being lifted bodily away from the confessional.
“Easy, easy,” Tyler said as she struggled in his arms.
The bishop and the abbess hurried up behind him. The reverend mother rushed to Father Henry’s aid. The young girl shielded herself behind her mother.
Tyler gripped Belinda by the shoulders. “What’s wrong with you?”
She looked at him and gradually became aware of what she’d done, struggling to process it.
Father Henry wiped the blood from his nose and approached Tyler. “Please, let her be. It isn’t her fault.”
The girl’s mother called across to Belinda, “You are a monster. May God have mercy on you!” Turning with her daughter, they briskly made their way out of the church.
Tyler turned to the bishop and Father Henry. “Look guys, I’m really sorry. I have no idea what’s the matter with her. But if there’s anything I can do—”
“Watch over her, and keep her from harm,” Father Henry said.
They followed the woman and her daughter to the church entrance.
Before they reached the door, they saw the woman freeze at the sight of a tall, masculine presence in the doorway. She looked up into his dreary-eyed face and a glint of recognition came across her eyes.
“Hi,” Brandon said sleepily. “I’m looking for my brother and my girlfriend. Do you know if they’re in here?”
The woman looked behind her.
Brandon followed her gaze and waved at them obliviously. “Hey, guys. What’s happenin’?”
The woman looked downward, clearly trying to recall where she knew Brandon from—and then looked up at him again.
Tyler became concerned as he watched the woman staring at his brother. Brandon returned her stare with an inebriated, confused look. But Tyler knew instantly that, regardless of her economic circumstances, she clearly owned a television set. He recalled Dr. Fleetwood telling him that Brandon’s escape from Leavenworth had divided the American people. The look on this woman’s face indicated she wasn’t one of those who wanted his autograph. Paranoia came over him. In addition to everything else, he instinctively knew that all hell was about to be unleashed upon them.
He grasped Brandon by the arm and turned him around. “Come on. We’ve got to go.”
“Is Emily here?”
“No.”
The woman waited until the three strangers had disappeared. With one hand tightly holding her daughter’s, she took out her cell phone.
Seventeen
Vipers
Emily approached the town of Crispin Rock, overcome by fatigue. Having walked for miles across desert land, she was in desperate need of rest.
It was four in the afternoon, and the sight of Rocker’s Tavern on the opposite side of the main high street looked extremely appealing. She’d never stepped inside a bar before. The convent had taught her that such were places of iniquity and drunkenness, notwithstanding she’d heard rumors of priests who frequented them. She’d never experienced alcohol beyond the thimble’s quantity provided for communion.
But the bar was a place where there were other human beings and a sorely-needed place to sit down.
Racked with apprehension, she gingerly pushed open the door and stepped inside. She noticed the bar area ahead of her, and then her attention transferred to the rest of the room. There were posters and advertisements for bands that were due to appear at various dates, an overhanging fan, and a spattering of men sitting and drinking beer around the tables.
The creaking wooden floor was the only audible sound as she stepped forward. The patrons ceased their conversations in mid-sentence, creating an ominous atmosphere. The eerie silence increased her apprehension.
The owner of the bar, a tall, overweight male with long hair hanging in his eyes, acknowledged her. “Afternoon, ma’am. What can I get for you?”
Nervously, she replied, “W-well, I was just wondering if I may have . . .”
“Ma’am?”
“A glass of water.”
“You sure can. And please, take the weight off.” He gestured to one of the tall chairs at the bar. “By the way, I’m Bill.”
“Thank you. I’m Emily.” As she sat, the feeling of her feet leaving the floor was indescribably ecstatic.
Bill placed a pitcher of water and a glass on the bar. Emily poured it out eagerly, never having known a thirst like it.
“Where are you from, Emily?” Bill said. “You staying around here?”
The question made her feel uncomfortable, but she was adamant she wasn’t going to lie. She wasn’t eager to reveal she was an escaped nun either. “I’m from . . . Nevada. I’m just traveling right now. Looking for work.”
Bill briefly glanced over her shoulder. She turned in the direction he was looking to see a young, Latino male in the corner of the bar. He seemed to be watching her with particular interest. She turned back to Bill and noticed him shuddering.
The man in the corner stood and came toward them. She noticed the patrons recoiling in discomfort. The atmosphere was permeated with tension, but Emily didn’t know what to make of it.
Bill leaned forward, about to say something, but backed away as the Latino male arrived beside her.
Emily looked up at the young man and couldn’t help noticing how handsome he was. She became captivated by his thick, perfectly-groomed black hair, flawless olive complexion, and the most striking brown eyes. Dressed in crisp jeans, a white vest, and a denim jacket, he caused her heart to flutter in a way she’d been taught could lead her to hell.
“I’m Fabian,” he said.
She returned his smile awkwardly. “Emily.”
“I heard. So, Emily, you’re looking for work. What kind of work?”
She shrugged. “Well, I-I can cook, clean, sweep up. I can learn pretty much anything, I suppose.”
“Have you been traveling long?”
“Just a couple of days.”
“Well, I can find work for you if you’re interested.”
Emily smiled warmly. “
What would I be doing?”
“Something I’ve got a feeling you were born to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Helping people. Bringing happiness to them.”
Her heart leaped. “Whereabouts? Are you from around here?”
“No. Los Angeles.”
“Los Angeles? I’ve never been there.”
“Oh, you’ll love it.”
She poured herself another glass of water and drank deeply.
“When was the last time you ate?” he said.
She looked away from him, a little embarrassed. “Breakfast.”
“Breakfast? You must be starving.”
“I . . . I suppose I am quite hungry. But please, you don’t have to buy me food. I’ll be fine, really.”
“It’s not that I have to. But I’d like to. What say we quit this joint and go get something to eat?”
Despite her apprehension, her hunger prompted her response. “I’d like that, but . . .”
Fabian frowned. “But what?”
“I’m rather embarrassed. I only have eighty-three dollars, so it will be difficult for me to return the favor.”
He smiled broadly. “Are you kidding me? Where I come from, the gentleman always pays.”
“Well, if you insist. That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. Shall we go?”
“Sure, I guess so,” she said with some uncertainty. As she stood, she was immediately reminded of how sore her feet were the moment they touched the ground.
She turned back to Bill behind the bar. “Thank you so much for your kindness.”
He didn’t respond.
The patrons watched as Emily exited the bar with her hand in the crook of her new escort’s arm. The door closed.
A hard-looking, shaven-headed man sitting at the far side of the bar stood up aggressively about to intervene when Bill grasped his arm. The two men looked into one another’s eyes for a moment. Sadness and regret consumed Bill as he shook his head at his customer. “We’ll have a massacre on our hands.”
The patron backed away. Bill knew the anger in him had suddenly been replaced by the same grief he, himself, was feeling. He shook his head, unable to accept what had just happened.
“We’ve got to do something. We can’t just let that bastard take her.”
“We have no choice, Galen,” Bill said. “If we interfere, they’ll kill every last damn one of us, and burn the place down.” He gripped Galen by the shoulders and looked pleadingly at him. “We have families. We can’t fight vipers like that. They’re way out of our league, you know that.”
Galen broke away from Bill and began to pace the room.
Bill looked over at the closed door. “May God help her.”
Eighteen
The Wire
“Air traffic reports show Tyler Faraday flew to Switzerland for six weeks in one of his father’s private jets. He invested just over one-point-one million dollars with La Roche and Co. in Bern, returned to Dallas five days ago, and disappeared just as quickly.” Agent Wilmot dropped the report onto Director Wolfe’s desk. “I think trying to track this guy down is a waste of time and manpower, sir.”
“Why do you say that?”
Wilmot was highly protective of the fact that he’d heard from Brandon Drake during the time Tyler Faraday was in Switzerland. In an attempt to throw Wolfe off the scent, he proceeded to put forth his alternate case. “From the personnel we interviewed at Leavenworth, there’s no tangible reason for us to believe Faraday was complicit in his brother’s escape. And Faraday’s trip to Switzerland is in keeping with his vocational activities.”
“Oh?”
Wilmot produced one paper after another from his file and placed them on Wolfe’s desk in turn. “Four months ago, he spent two weeks in London conducting an investment deal with the daughter of Rudolph Hemingford, a financier in Westminster . . . from the honeymoon suite of The Dorchester Hotel.”
Wolfe picked up the paper and glanced over it.
“Three weeks prior to that, he returned from a four week vacation in the Cayman Islands with one of the models from Ford Models, Inc. Two months before that, he was in Tokyo discussing the purchase of some tech for one of his father’s helicopter designs with the Takagu-Mitsushi Corporation.” He placed the paper on the desk. “Shall I go on?”
“I get the picture.”
“This guy’s a professional vacationer who happens to be an expert in investment and finance. The day Faraday adopted him was the greatest lottery win in world history. He has it made.”
“So it seems.”
“I really think going after Tyler Faraday to find Brandon Drake is a waste of time.”
The conversation was cut short by Wolfe’s portable phone beeping, and he took it out of its cradle. “Wolfe here.”
Wilmot watched, intrigued, as the director’s eyes widened.
“OK. . . . She’s sure it was him?” Wolfe hurriedly scribbled down the details on a notepad. “Thank you. I’ll dispatch a unit out there right away.” The call ended.
“Sir?” Wilmot said.
Wolfe handed him the note. “Brandon Drake has been seen in Nevada with Faraday and Belinda Reese. Apparently Reese assaulted a priest.”
Wilmot cringed knowing he’d just made an ass out of himself by saying the hunt for Tyler Faraday was futile. Now, his entire agenda was on the line. If Drake knew anything about Treadwell’s surviving cell, it could lead to Wilmot himself facing considerable time in a federal penitentiary. He knew, no matter what, that he had to act immediately.
“There are no fine details as such,” Wolfe said. “It seems they were looking for someone at St. Mark’s Catholic Church in a place called Woodville, Nevada.” He gestured to the paper in Wilmot’s hand. “Whoever it is, chances are they’re searching for them in nearby towns.”
“Drake’s an escaped fugitive, and he’s showing his face in public? It doesn’t make sense.”
“The information came from the Nevada Highway Patrol. I want them kept out of it. Don’t take an entire unit. I want this kept low-key, and I don’t want Drake to feel threatened. At all costs, you let him know you’re not with law enforcement, and that we need his help on a matter of national security. You understand?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” Wilmot headed for the door.
Wolfe stood sharply. “Take Jed Crane. You’re a damn fine agent, but he’s got a knack for diplomacy that you don’t. And tell Deborah I need to see her.”
“She’s gone home, sir.”
“What?”
“She left a couple of hours ago. It’s nine o’clock, sir.”
Wolfe looked at his watch. “Damn. Looks like this is gonna be a long night. I have a lot of calls to make.” He picked up his phone.
Wilmot departed the office with haste. Looking around to ensure the corridor was deserted, he took out his encrypted cell phone. After selecting a number he had on speed dial, the call was answered almost immediately. “Garrett. Now’s the time . . . That’s right. Tonight.”
As he ended the call he became aware of a presence behind him. He turned abruptly to see Agent Crane approaching. Dammit.
Jed Crane, a tall, strapping operative in his early thirties, with male model looks and perfect blond hair, was the last person Wilmot wished to see at that moment.
“I’ve just had a call from Director Wolfe,” Crane said.
Wilmot managed a faux-smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got everything under control.”
“That’s not what Director Wolfe said. He insisted I accompany you to bring Drake back, with specific conduct instructions.”
Wilmot took a deep breath in an attempt to contain his annoyance. “All right, I’m taking Kerwin and Rhodes. We’re keeping it low key, but we don’t take any unnecessary chances around Drake. He’s lethal, you understand?”
“You got it. Is Garrett coming with us?”
“No.” With that, Wilmot hastily made his
way along the corridor.
After a moment, Wilmot came to his senses and recalled his previous experience with Drake in Wyoming. Knowing Drake’s physical capabilities, there was the possibility of a serious problem bringing Drake in should he become volatile. He realized Crane’s diplomatic skills and temperament may be useful after all.
It was past midnight when Wolfe exited the elevator and walked into the indoor parking lot toward his new BMW. Ten consecutive nights of overtime and early rises were taking their toll upon him.
For the past two years, his life had been a series of daily ordeals. First, there had been Treadwell, his long-standing friend and ally, who was revealed to be a murderous politician who sought to elevate America to celestial heights by creating arbitrary wars. The situation had become a living nightmare when it became apparent that Treadwell may have operatives within the intelligence community. Wolfe’s own cell, SDT, was most likely infected, given that it was established under Treadwell’s recommendation. It was now under examination by Congress as part of an investigation into the possible murder of one of its own operatives.
Treadwell’s two captured recruits, Ogilsby and Woodford, who had been incapacitated by Drake two years earlier, had been unofficially disposed of only weeks before the investigation began. The details had not been made public, but they were considered, at the highest levels, to be serious internal security risks. Both had gone to their deaths defiantly protesting that they had given everything they knew to Wilmot, who, in turn, denied he’d received anything at all. Wilmot’s word was taken over those of two disgruntled turncoats. The only remaining man alive who may know anything helpful was an escaped, highly-elusive fugitive.
Wolfe opened up his BMW, sat in the driver’s seat, and put his seat belt on. He turned the key in the ignition slightly, and the radio came on. His MP3 recording of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No.1 began.
He exhaled deeply and relaxed into the leather seat, unwinding to the soothing, classic melody. After giving himself a moment, he turned the key.