Beads of sweat formed along his hairline. His stomach began to turn. He tried his breathing exercises—inhale deeply, hold it for ten seconds, exhale through the nostrils, and repeat. Repeat. Repeat again. He recited, five times, the Bene Gesserit "litany against fear" from his favorite novel, Dune. He recalled a line he once heard from a motivational speaker, along the lines that fear couldn't exist without prolonged indecision, or something like that. That if you could picture the worst possible outcome of the decision you faced, and could then resolve to live with that outcome if it came to pass, then in making your decision, in committing to a choice, your fear would melt away. But the worst possible outcome of his idea was that he would be taken away from his ill wife in her hour of greatest need. He didn't think he could live with that. And it was a very real possibility.
He stood up and stepped back from his desk. Then, desperate for some sort of release, he began to do, of all the inane things, jumping jacks, counting boot camp style as he went: "one-two-three-one, one-two-three-two, one-two-three-three. . . ." It wasn't helping, so he picked up speed, his tie flying this way and that as he flailed maniacally. "One-two-three-fifty-seven. . . ." His pulse thumped in his ears. Then, without premeditation, he spin-kicked the door of his closet with a loud crash, splitting it in half vertically. He watched the broken half fall to the floor, went down the hall to the open cubicle of a young Forest Service inspector where he knew there was a phone that blocked its own caller ID.
Within minutes, he'd tracked down the appropriate phone company official. An attorney in their compliance department.
"What did you say your name was again?"
"John Pratt."
"And you are a sworn L.E.O.?"
"Yes, sir. I'm a special agent with the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, Directorate for Counter Intelligence."
"I haven't heard of that one."
"It's relatively new. Post-9/11. I can fax you a copy of my credentials, along with the subpoena. I can also give you the address of the agency web site."
"A fax of your credentials would be helpful. And I assume you'll mail the original subpoena today?"
"Yes. You should get it shortly."
"Okay. So let me get this straight: you need this guy--what's his name?—Drake. You need the numbers of Drake's outgoing calls placed in the next 24 hours?"
"That's correct."
"And you have a subpoena for this."
"I can fax it to you in the next 10 minutes."
"Yes. It's just that something about this troubles me."
"Yes?"
"I mean, philosophically, this is almost like doing a pen register, which would require a court order, as you know."
"The difference is that I would not be getting the information in real time."
"You almost would."
"If it would make you feel better to check the applicable statute, if memory serves, I believe it's 18 U.S.C. section 3127. It's also addressed in the 1979 U.S. Supreme Court case of Smith versus Maryland. I can get you a court order if you need one. But I'd prefer not to, given the exigency."
The lawyer seemed to be deliberating. "Okay, just fax me the subpoena and we'll go for it. I'm assuming you want me to have our tech people fax you the results right at the 24-hour mark?"
"That would be perfect. Thank you very much."
"And you'll mail me the original subpoena."
"Today."
In 10 minutes, Arkin was faxing the phone company attorney a forged subpoena, along with a photocopy of Pratt's credentials he'd kept in a file after using it for a gun range rental application a year earlier.
*****
Sitting in the same Forest Service employee's cubicle that night, having waited until well after business hours in Wyoming so that he wouldn't have to talk to the guy, Arkin dialed the land line phone number for Dustin Drake, CPA. It rang and rang. At last, an antiquated answering machine kicked on. "This is Dustin Drake, CPA. I'm not able to take your call. . . ." Arkin was ready for the beep.
"Hello, Mr. Drake. This is Special Agent Chad Rhodes with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm the agent-in-charge of the Redding, California, field office, and I'm trying to track down two companies for which you serve as registered agent in the state of Wyoming. The companies are called V-TAC and Star Dynamics. It is imperative that you give me a call back, as this concerns an urgent matter in a federal conspiracy and murder investigation. My number is. . . ."
Arkin made sure he gave the real number and name for the agent-in-charge in Redding, just in case Drake did any superficial checking. As long as he didn't actually get Rhodes on the phone, the cover story would work. But he doubted Drake would even bother. With any luck, he'd simply call his client to pass the message along.
TWENTY-THREE
The next evening, as Arkin sat in the dark waiting, Pratt's fax machine chirped to life, printing out a one-page list encompassing the numbers for 17 outgoing phone calls from the office of Dustin Drake, CPA. The very first one, placed at 9:06 a.m., had an area code of 250, which, as Arkin would never forget, covered much of British Columbia, including Vancouver Island.
Bingo.
He took the printout home and called Killick after opening a cold beer.
"Go to a payphone and call me back," Arkin said without bothering to say hello.
"A payphone? Do we even still have those in America?"
"Just do it."
"Screw you, bud. It's like 28 degrees outside. And dark." Arkin waited, silent. "Nate, this is a secure line. If there's a problem with eavesdropping, it's at your end."
"Humor me."
"You're being ridiculous. The line is encrypted. Now, my extremely late dinner is sitting in front of me on my desk, getting cold, so I'm going to eat it while we talk."
Arkin sighed. "Got something for you." He gave Killick the British Columbia phone number.
"What am I supposed to make of this?"
"Just check it out. Find out who pays the bills for that line. I'm guessing it will be a Chinese-Canadian formerly known as Zhang Zhou, now living under an alias. A one-time resident of Port Hardy, BC."
"And dare I ask, where did you—"
"Don't worry. I was just looking through a box of old photos and found that number on a scrap of paper at the bottom of the pile."
"Looking through a box of old photos."
"It has a British Columbia area code."
"So?"
"I think it's a number I jotted down when I was working the Priest case."
"And you just found it. Just now. In your house."
"Just check it out. I'll bet you my whole retirement fund that the bills for that number are still being paid, even though the billing address is probably for some sort of derelict storefront, warehouse, or factory that has been abandoned for years, and that the guy paying the bills will lead you to the Priest."
"Have you told the Bureau?"
"I'm going to call them first thing tomorrow. It's late."
"No shit, it's late. I'm on Eastern Time, you inconsiderate ass."
*****
Arkin was jolted awake by a shrill whistling. The fire alarm. Out of habit, he first turned to check the alarm clock. 3:37 a.m.. He turned a lamp on and rolled from bed. There was no smoke in the bedroom as yet, so he threw on a pair of pants, a sweatshirt, and shoes, shoved his cellphone in his pocket, and got up to check his door. It was warm, but not hot. He opened it to find the far end of the hallway in flames. He was cut off from the rest of the house. The first thing he thought of was the British Columbia phone number. But the fax was in his briefcase on the kitchen table. There was no way he could get to it. And for the second time in his life, he cursed himself for not thinking to memorize the number.
He stood for a moment, wondering how the fire had progressed so quickly when the alarm had only sounded a minute earlier. There must have been an accelerant. And that could mean only one thing: arson. Attempted murder by arson.
He pulled his gun locker from
under his bed, spun the combination, and took out a holstered .45. He climbed out the window, executing a paratrooper's roll as he landed on the ground. Before bothering to get his bearings, he ran for cover into the clump of pine trees at the back edge of the yard, in case anyone was waiting to take a shot at him. He attached the holstered .45 to his leather belt, waited for his eyes to adjust, hopped the fence, and ran through the trees along the edge of the forest toward the hospital, making his way by moonlight.
*****
Morrison was already at the hospital, standing guard at the door to Hannah's room, by the time he got there. "She's fine, brother. She's sleeping."
"Thanks for coming," Arkin said, short of breath. "Sorry to wake you. I owe you one."
"Shut your mouth."
"I think it was kerosene. There was that oil lamp smell."
"All that matters right now is that we get you the fuck out of Durango."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Nate, someone just tried to burn your house down with you in it."
"I'm not leaving Hannah."
"We'll bring her."
"She's in bad shape. I don't want to try to move her right now."
"What about somewhere close, like Telluride? I'll drive you both there today."
He thought for a moment. "No. No, I need to stay here."
"Why?"
"Network access. My weapons. You."
"Hey, look, I've got your back as much as I can, but—"
"We'll be okay. I'm sure DPD will be willing to put a security detail on Hannah's room."
"I think that's a bad decision. But it's your call. Anyway, here." Morrison took a new cellphone from his pocket. "This is for you. It's a burner. Just in case anyone is tracking your mobile." He handed it to Arkin.
"Thanks. I think I'll hang onto my old one in case I need a decoy."
"Well, at least take the battery out when you aren't using it. Do you have an active cover?"
"An old one. But it should still be viable."
"Then let's swing by the office and get your ID, make a few moves to drop any surveillance, and then go get you set up in some shitty motel on the south side of town. Let's get you a different car and then leave yours at the office so nobody finds you by searching parking lots."
*****
Later that morning, after borrowing a truck from one of his Forest Service buddies, executing clean off maneuvers to make sure he wasn't being followed, checking into a south Durango motel under a pseudonym, then driving up to Rim Drive and pulling to the shoulder to take care of business using his new phone, he updated O'Neil and Killick on the situation—in Killick's case, only after insisting that he find a payphone to call back on this time—and gave them his new cell number. Killick sounded shaken.
"Holy shit. Is Hannah okay?"
"She's fine."
"I'm sorry. I should have—look, let me send a team out to cover your back."
"That isn't necessary. And I don't want to risk scaring these people off until I can figure out who they are and where they came from. Anyway, we still don't know who the traitor is in DCI. An operation like that could be compromised from the get-go."
"Well shit, then. What can I do?"
"I need that phone number back from you. It was lost in the fire."
"You don't have it saved anywhere else?" Arkin's silence answered his question. "Shit, I gave it to the tech guys so they could get started on running down the owner."
"I need to give it to the FBI."
"I'll try to get it back. I'll call you at this number."
"Good."
*****
An hour later, Arkin and Hannah were in her hospital room after discussing what Arkin had learned from a phone call with their homeowners insurance agent, as she lay in bed, sipping at a cup of apple juice. Arkin was now staring at the wall, quiet.
"Nate."
"Hmmm?"
"Where are you?"
"Sorry. Far away."
"It's alright. What were you thinking about?"
Arkin shook his head. "Historical noise."
"Tell me."
"It's nothing relevant."
"Nate."
He paused. "You remember the operation we ran against that neo-Nazi down near Appomattox, Raylan McGill—the meth dealer who castrated and killed an Ethiopian Jewish convenience store clerk in Richmond?"
"The guy who was planning to bomb the Holocaust Museum."
"It was a huge operation. Maximum priority. Sheffield himself ran the command post in Lynchburg. I was partnered with Killick on surveillance."
"I remember."
Arkin paused again. "There's an aspect to the story I've never told anyone before."
"Yes?"
"Killick and I, we'd been staked out in the forest, watching this guy's trailer for a few days, getting nowhere. It was obvious he was expecting surveillance. All we'd seen him do was slap his wife around. Of course, we couldn't sandbag him for that because our mission was to observe all comings and goings, to identify all his co-conspirators in the Holocaust Museum bombing plot. So Killick and I are out there in the woods one night in our static post, watching, when McGill flies into this rage and really starts to go to town on his wife, well beyond anything we'd already witnessed. A brutal beating."
Arkin's face took on a look of revulsion as he remembered. Hannah waited for him to go on.
"It's just that. . . ."
"What?"
"Killick started talking about how we would never win against the endless procession of people like McGill until we were willing to cross the line."
"Cross the line?"
Arkin paused again. "He wanted me to shoot McGill."
"That's frustration talking. He was probably just—"
"No, he literally begged me to. At first I thought he was joking. He wasn't. Believe me."
"Well. . . ."
"And he seemed genuinely frustrated when I didn't. Angry, even."
Arkin could still picture the scene as though it were yesterday. Could still feel the crisp autumn air on his cheeks, could still smell the fallen leaves. And he could still feel the nausea that hit him as he watched McGill beat the living hell out of his wife—could still feel the burning temptation to flex his finger just enough to exert 3.5 pounds of pressure on the cold steel trigger of his rifle and blow McGill's brains out.
Two hours after the beating, Arkin and Killick had been spelled by the reserve surveillance crew. Using night vision gear, they made their way through the dark Virginia woods, down to the tent they'd set up as a staging point 50 meters off a lonely country road that wound through a hollow and on south to the state highway. They cleaned the black greasepaint from their faces, changed back into their street clothes, and got in their unmarked pickup truck to make their way back to their base at an ancient hotel in old Lynchburg, where Sheffield waited to debrief them.
They drove for two miles along the dark, forest-flanked road that followed a small winding creek, down to where it merged with the road that came down from McGill's property. Taking a left toward the highway, they drove another half mile before happening upon McGill's wife, walking in the same direction along the gravel shoulder, in her bloodied tank top and jeans. No coat, despite the cold air. Her exposed arms were heavily tattooed. Crosses. Citations to the Old Testament. A Nazi SS symbol. Arkin pulled up alongside her and lowered the window. Her swollen nose, lips, and chin were covered in dried blood, her shoulders slumped. She looked straight ahead, dazed. Didn't stop walking.
"Miss? Miss, are you alright?" No response. "Miss, were you in an accident?"
At this, she seemed to almost grin. She stopped and turned to face him, her face a battered, blood-darkened mess.
"Can we give you a lift into town?"
Without answering, she grabbed the handle of the crew cab door and jumped in. Killick shifted his body, ever so subtly, until he was in a position to keep an eye on her and, if necessary, strike with his dominant hand if she produced a weapon
. He stole covert glances, scanning her clothing for telltale bulges, concluding that she probably didn't have a gun on her. A knife was another matter.
"Miss, can we take you to the hospital?" Arkin asked. No response. "I think this little lady might be in shock, George."
"Yeah, I think you might be right."
Should they make a pass at her? It was outside of their game plan. But McGill had just beaten her to within inches of her life. Could she possibly be motivated to betray him?
She was silent. They drove on.
"I don't know, Hank," Killick said. "I think maybe we oughta take her to the police station. I think maybe she's been attacked."
"Jus drop me ah mah sisuh's place," she said in a sad, weak voice, through her purple swollen lips. "A mile up on thuh righh."
"Miss, have you been attacked?" Arkin asked, in as kind a voice as he could muster. "Who did this to you?" He watched her in the rearview mirror. She was slumped, cowering, meek.
"Mah husbann," she said at last, her chin resting against her chest as she stared down at her own lap.
Bingo. Keep her talking. Say anything. Just keep the dialogue going.
"What happened?"
"Where ah you from, Hank?"
"Near Charlottesville."
"Near Charlottesville? Me too. Whereabouts?"
"Miss, I think we should take you to the hospital."
"How abow you, George? Where ah you from?"
"Miss, can you tell us what happened?"
She nodded to herself, as though in affirmation of something. Then she looked up and met Arkin's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Mah husban say I was a dirty ho."
"Did you have an argument?"
"He said I was a whore. Pull over here," she said, her speech suddenly clear.
Arkin did as she asked, bringing the truck to a halt at the end of a winding and potholed gravel driveway that disappeared into the forest. "Miss, I think we should get you some help." As he said this, the first hint of realization began to set in. Something had changed in her voice. The pain and fear in it had gone. Even the distorting impediment of her swollen lips seemed to have vanished. Her voice was icy and clear.
The Shadow Priest Page 20