To Hunt a Sub

by Jacqui Murray

  Experience told him the boy was dead, but Felix had a sixteen-year-old son.

  “Police. May I talk to the homeowner?” Felix studied the rundown building as he waited. Bowed front porch, dirty windows, chipped paint—the house looked unlivable. When he was greeted with silence, he went around to the backyard. It overflowed with junk and weeds. A falling-down shed filled the back corner, its tattered door falling off the hinges.

  The new padlock was odd.

  “Hi.”

  Felix started. A teenage boy stood four feet from him. He crossed long dirty arms over a ragged t-shirt. Mud and green slime streaked his pants. He wore socks, but no shoes. His eyes were frightened, darting around like a ping pong ball, and he tapped his fingers non-stop against his chest.

  “You’re trespassing, officer,” a voice boomed from the back door of the house.

  “I’m looking for a boy. He’s about this age and size.”

  “That’s my son. He’s right where he should be.”

  Right. The boy’s hands were soft, his eyes gentle. The haircut came from a barber and the clothes would never survive this rural country.

  “Maybe he’s seen the boy I’m after. What’s your name, young man?” he asked.

  “Shanayus.”

  “What an interesting name.”

  “He answered you. Go back to your chores, Shay-nus!”

  Shanayus ran like a city boy.

  “Thank you for your help, Mr.—

  “Bill Clinton. I got work to do. We’re hardworking folk out here. We ain’t got time to chitchat. I’ve been as helpful as I can. Now let me raise my family!”

  He pointed a rifle at Felix and motioned him to leave.

  “I’m sure you have a permit for that, Mr. Clinton. What is it? A Browning LongTrac Semi-automatic? I bought one of those last year to hunt deer. Do much deer hunting around here?”

  The man who called himself Clinton ignored the question and waved the shotgun toward the driveway. Felix tipped his hat, turned, and left. When he got out of sight, he radioed the station.

  “Have Mary ready. I might have the boy.”

  The Department still used sketch artists, though they debated the pros and cons of cameras in the cars. He was going to buy one of those fancy phones that took pictures and videos and then his bosses could take as long as they wanted to decide.

  Felix got to the office and described Shanayus to Mary Elder, a third cousin who’d been there longer than he had. He emailed her drawing along with the boy’s name to the investigator who requested the surveillance and headed for the next stop on his list.

  The sketch from Felix Whitetower and Mary Elder could be any teenage boy—dark shaggy hair, innocent eyes, arms folded around his chest. A photo would be better, but lots of rural police didn’t have cameras in their vehicles. If it was Sean, why would the kidnappers allow the police to talk to him?

  Where had Rowe heard that name before? The notes said the son pronounced it Sha-nay-us and the Dad, Shaynus.

  An alarm thundered in Rowe’s head. “Sha-nay-us—”

  “—is Sean’s palindrome.” It was the first words Kali had said in an hour. “This is Sean. He always hugs himself, to protect his hands.”

  She stroked a finger over his face. Rowe turned the car back north and contacted Whitetower. “He’ll meet us at the cabin.”

  Rowe exited a couple off-ramps past Pottersville, wound his way down dirt roads barely more than trails, and approached an old Ford truck up parked on the shoulder. In front of it was a tall solid man in a worn shirt, his back to them.

  “That must be Whitetower.”

  Whitetower turned as they parked. His eyes were calm as though nothing could surprise him and his shoulders squared against whatever life threw his way.

  “Mr. Whitetower. I’m Zeke Rowe. This is Kalian Delamagente, Sean’s mother.”

  “Call me Felix.”

  He smelled green and tan, like the landscape he roamed. His eyes never left the beat up house nestled in a dusty bowl of scrub bushes and stunted water-starved trees.

  “Car’s gone. I’ve been here since we talked and seen no one. I may have spooked them.”

  They descended together, weapons out but lowered. A crow cawed overhead and gophers scurried into their holes. Otherwise, the homestead squatted bleak and lonely.

  “How did he look, Mr. Whitetower?” Kali’s voice came out soft and hopeful.

  “Healthy, Ms. Delamagente. You raised a fine, polite boy, nothing like Mr. Clinton. And smart.”

  They flattened themselves to the craggy wood siding and knocked. Whitetower pressed his ear to the rough unpainted door and Rowe peered in the grimy windows.

  “There’s only one room, empty.”

  Whitetower entered while Rowe and Kali slipped around the corner. They combed the yard in vain search of any evidence of Sean’s presence before noticing the ruined shed.

  “Felix thinks they kept Sean there.”

  The stench made Rowe gag. He swallowed quickly, took a deep breath, and edged inside. Kali didn’t flinch, walked right in like it was home. Someone had sprinkled dirt over the commode, which did nothing to tamp down the flies crowding for space on the dense sludge.

  “Sean’s tough, Zeke. He would adopt this as a private place to think.”

  She examined the walls and ceiling, tearing at dense spider webs, some old, some still home to furry black creatures who didn’t like her interference. “He’s all I have. He trusts me to find whatever clue he leaves.”

  And she did—almost hidden by waste, eye level with the moldy baseboard, she dug her fingertips through the slimy crust. Each day, Sean scratched in his name and the date.

  The last was today.

  Chapter 55

  Wednesday

  “I’m done.”

  Kali squinted at her phone. “Eitan?” It was 6am. Zeke had given Sun Felix Whitetower’s evidence late last night, actually, very early this morning. “You must have worked all night.” Of course he did. “I’ll be right there.”

  She threw on clothes, glad she showered last night though she had no choice. The sour reek of urine and feces overpowered her efforts to sleep.

  She stuck a note on Mr. Winters’ back door and sprinted to Eitan’s lab. Rowe greeted her with a cup of coffee—no cream, no sugar. His shirt and jeans were fresh, but his face tense.

  “Sam paid cash for the cleaning service.” Judging by the body odor and piles of food wrappers, Sun hadn’t left his geekosphere in days. “Joe Boyd’s military record shows a decorated marine with a bad temper, honest to his detriment. Chain of command called him intractable because ‘he always thinks he’s right and usually is’. An osculare pultem meam guy.”

  He shot a glance over his glasses. “Kiss my ass sounds more cultured in Latin.”

  “My kind of warrior,” Rowe responded absently.

  Sun continued. “The Monroe’s are two months from bankruptcy.”

  “What about the real estate exchange?”

  “They bought the cabin where Sean was held for almost nothing and swapped it for the Hudson home, to an Eritrea-based conglomerate which has since gone bankrupt. I’m trying to trace the disposition of assets. Before you ask, James already pulled Monroe out of bed to ask who he arranged the trade with. He never saw them, all via email and messenger.”

  “A rundown shack for a manicured home? Why can’t I make those deals?”

  Sun ignored Rowe. “Cap’s owned that motel his entire life, as did his Dad before him.”

  “Not surprised. My gut says Cap is a good guy in a bad place.”

  “The Best Western manager receives $1,000 a month as a consultant from the same black hole the emails go to. Whitetower’s boss says the officer has no interest other than the safety of his hometown. He wants five more like him.”

  Rowe said, “I need to know where Gegham Keregosian and Salah Al-Zahrawi overlap.”

  Sun’s fingers flew, eyes skittering over three of his seven screens. Rowe was ab
out to ask if he heard him when Sun bounced twice, bumped his glasses up his nose, and gulped half a Styrofoam cup of red M&M’s. “The search will take fifty-four minutes. Anyone hungry?”

  They went to JJ’s Place, one of Columbia’s numerous cafeterias. Sun got coffee, sliced tomatoes, cherry pie, and seconds. Rowe devoured scrambled eggs, four slices of toast, two link sausages, and a chocolate shake. Kali ordered a salad which she ignored, choosing instead to shred her napkin and collect the pieces in a neat pile beside her fork. Her face had the passive expression of a spectator at a chess match, not a woman dying from the inside. But, her eyes were clear.

  When Rowe tried to engage her in conversation, she interrupted, “I’m fine, Zeke. I just want to find Sean. How was your hamburger?”

  Rowe smiled. “My eggs? Excellent.”

  When they got back to Sun’s lab, a message was flashing. Sun scooted into his chair and locked onto the monitor. “The auction’s in twelve days. Invitation only,” and Sun went to work while Kali offered suggestions Rowe didn’t understand.

  Rowe should have felt good about finding out the auction date, but instead felt like he was hanging by his fingers from a cliff, rimrocked, with no way to safety. Even if the Navy successfully wiped all the system files, which would eradicate NEV, they couldn’t be sure Al-Zahrawi didn’t have the magnetic signatures. With Otto, he could find America’s Tridents a week from now or a year from now. The only way to stop that, and protect Kali and Sean, was to stop Al-Zahrawi.

  Chapter 56

  Wednesday

  Kali and Eitan distilled the mishmash of ideas to one wobbly plan. Eitan calculated their chances of success at sixteen percent. Kali thought that was generous.

  She pushed heavily to her feet, hoping to go home, pet Sandy, and get away from her worries for a few hours. Rowe had left long ago, on an errand he didn’t share. Before she could rub the sleep from her exhausted eyes, Cat plopped into her chair.

  “Cat, you’re supposed to be hiding.”

  She winced, but said nothing. Her transformation the past week stunned Kali. Lank, oily hair stuck to her skull. Her skin was sallow and blotchy, and without make-up. She’d chewed her impeccably-manicured nails until they bled. Her clothes were mismatched, wrinkled, and hung on her frame

  “He’s a jerk. Hell if I’ll run from him.” The words tumbled out, almost the old Cat. Good.

  Kali checked her email, hoping for but not getting a response from the Dean about her dissertation. “Do you want to talk, Cat?”

  “I’m fine,” but a tear escaped.

  Kali rolled her eyes. “Right. You look fine.” When that elicited no reply, she added, “We’ll get through this—I promise.”

  Kali had to get some rest, but first she stopped in on Mr. Winters. He greeted her with a mournful head shake. “I miss our friend. Not many visitors for an old man, and dogs accept you even if your breath is bad.”

  They reassured each other it was just a question of time before Sandy showed up. She wouldn’t tell her neighbor that Sean had been kidnapped until she had to. After hiding her briefcase under the couch, she crawled into bed.

  “I will find you, Sean, and then we’ll find Sandy. I swear on the graves of your grandparents, you will live out your dreams.”

  She fell asleep and dreamt she was Lucy.

  A towering hunter materialized in front of her, a scowl on his hair-free face. He kicked a spear toward her and hefted one of his own. She matched his waist-high hold, bent elbow, and right-handed grip. More hunters appeared; together, they shadowed a mammoth herd.

  “Our food. They are here for us.” He strode forward with a feline grace, confidence in every step.

  “They are Sabertooth’s and Panther’s also,” Lucy motioned, but he turned away.

  To her side, a frightened calf lowed, alone, without its mother. The hunters missed him in the shadows, but Lucy didn’t. Her arm stretched back as power filled it. Her grip tightened, fingers adjusting. A foreign cry escaped her lips as she thrust the lance forward and released.

  Suddenly, Kali became the calf. Terror froze her in place as the spear slammed into her throat and tore through her soft flesh like molten lava. She tried to scream, but the lance cut off her breath. The hunter reared back, a second spear cocked and ready to throw.

  It’s a dream, but it feels real.

  She reached up, expecting a primitive lance but instead touched cold metal—a knife. A coarse palm crushed her mouth. She tried to pull away, but there was no place to go.

  “I ask questions; you answer.” Borodnoi straddled her tighter, his body granite, black eyes feral. “Where is Catherine Stockbury?”

  “Hiding, but I don’t know where.”

  “You lie.” Borodnoi smashed a fist into her cheek. Searing heat exploded behind her eye. She struggled, fighting off nausea. “Where is the portable Otto you always carry? Tell me, you live.”

  Her head swam, eyes tight against the pain. She thought her jaw must be fractured. Her face throbbed as she spoke slowly, deliberately. “Fuck you.”

  Borodnoi’s voice hardened. “Wrong answer,” and he hammered Kali’s head, shoulders and chest. Her body screamed and her cheek burned as though scorched by fire. She tried to raise her arms, but they were pinned by his knees. She begged him to stop, but he seemed past reason. She felt herself slipping away. Sean needed her, but she cared less with every savage punch.

  Somewhere far away, a door slammed, then the pounding of feet but they were too late. Her world had shrunk to the piercing pain in her ribs, the throb in her neck, the inferno where her face used to be. And the nausea, worse than her headaches, but she was afraid if she threw up, she’d choke.

  “Kali! Are… ite?” The voice penetrated the pea soup of her thoughts moments after the weight on her chest lifted. A blurry figure crossed the room, quickly replaced by frightened eyes And the comforting scent of Zeke Rowe. She tried to point, but her arm didn’t move.

  “Gunner... after Cat.” Darkness swallowed her words as she passed out.

  Chapter 57

  Thursday

  “What happened?” Fairgrove grimaced at the welts on Kali’s face, the raw bruises encircling her neck, and the ace bandage pulled snugly around her shoulder. He boosted himself onto her desk and ran a hand over his hair. He was perfectly turned out in a lemon yellow polo shirt and beige linen slacks, the rich scent of aftershave losing to the sour malodor of a drinking binge gone late.

  “A car accident. I’m OK,” though her body screamed otherwise. Any movement sent stabbing pain through her ribs. Her jaw throbbed nonstop and a pounding headache spiked waves of nausea through her body. At least she had all her teeth.

  No surprise Fairgrove didn’t ask how she got in a car accident when she didn’t own a vehicle

  Zeke said he happened to be in the area, which couldn’t be true, but she wouldn’t argue with the man who had saved her life. After ensuring Borodnoi was gone, he called James who called the campus police, checked for broken bones, and put ice on her face. When she refused to go to the hospital, he settled for aspirin and a bodyguard—himself. In the morning, he dropped her at the Columbia health center and promised to return after an errand.

  She didn’t see a doctor. She had too much to do. Five minutes with Otto confirmed her suspicions. Now she silently willed Wyn to leave so she could break the news to Zeke.

  “Who’s this, Wyn?” Rowe asked, though he had a good idea who the muscle-bound Russian was with the wide sloping shoulders and face pocked with bad attitude. He stood behind Fairgrove and eyed Rowe with a predator’s unwavering attention. A too-small jacket bulged at the waist.

  “A friend.”

  “You don’t have friends, Wyn; you have accomplices. Does he call you Asshole, too?” Friend cracked his knuckles like a machine gun blast.

  Fairgrove wrapped a paternal arm around Kali’s bandaged shoulder. “You and Sean will be OK, dear.”

  Her face pinched.

  “Wyn, she’s not OK. Her d
og disappeared. Her son’s kidnapped. Her house was broken into three times. Now she’s been attacked.” Rowe jabbed a finger at Fairgrove’s chest. “Time to talk to your buddy, Salah—”

  “Back off.” Friend stepped in between the two men, crossed his arms and spread his legs in a sturdy manly stance, probably intended to be menacing. Rowe chuckled.

  “Friend of Fairgrove. I have no reason to dislike you. Keep it that way.”

  “Kali, I wanted to see you today—of course, I miss you, more each day—but also…” Fairgrove tried to muffle his next words. “I want you to marry me.”

  Kali’s jaw dropped. Rowe roared with laughter and Fairgrove blinked, over and over. “I know it’s sudden, but you’d make me so happy.”

  “I… I mean—”

  “Fairgrove,” Rowe fought for control. “This is a good time to shut up. Or apologize.”

  Fairgrove blanched and his hands shook. “This is a private conversation!”

  Friend stepped closer to Rowe. He had at least fifty pounds and two inches on Rowe, which probably made him overconfident. Rowe widened his eyes and shivered. Friend smirked, giving Rowe the perfect opening.

  He hit him first in the solar plexus and then the face, very fast and harder than Friend doubtless thought possible from a broken-down gimp. The thug stutter-stepped to catch his balance and Rowe slammed an elbow against his temple which dropped him like a felled tree.

  “Outside,” he snarled at Fairgrove. Weeks of rage blurred Rowe’s vision, but he couldn’t lose control. Yet. There was a bigger picture here. Destroying Fairgrove might be the right decision, but this was the wrong time.

  Fairgrove trembled so violently he couldn’t move, so Rowe pivoted him around, planted the sole of his shoe on Fairgrove’s back and shoved. The man fell through the doorway and slammed into the opposite wall. He groaned as Rowe crimped his left arm up behind him until a loud pop and a scream told him Fairgrove’s shoulder had been dislocated. Good start.