Into The Fire jb-4

by David Wiltse

  Most men in the Bureau would not have made this trip to see Becker in person, they would have thought it belittled someone as highly placed as Hatcher. But that was because they viewed status as the important thing, and there they were wrong. The important thing was to get the results that would solidify his position and increase his grip on the power his office offered him. Becker could not be manipulated by telephone, nor could he be summoned to Hatcher's office as if he were still employed by the Bureau. He could not be ordered to take an assignment; he could not be soft-soaped into it either. The secret to manipulating anyone was to know his weaknesses, and Hatcher knew Becker's.

  Becker's first weakness was that he hated Hatcher, hated him openly and defiantly and made no attempt to hide it. This made him a biased reporter and immediately discounted Becker's account of things with his superiors.

  Hatcher hated Becker, too, but knew better than to ever reveal it to anyone. Publicly, he praised Becker's undis courage and skill, bending over backwards to give impression of fairness. This gave credibility to the slightest and grudging suggestion of any deficiency.

  Becker vented his hatred of Hatcher to anyone who would listen. Hatcher used his hatred of Becker only in the places where it would do the most good, and that was one of the differences between them. Not that he ever wanted to do Becker too much harm. The man had his uses. Properly directed and sparingly employed, Becker could be used to carry another's career. He could be saddled and ridden. Hatcher had managed to make Becker's successes his own triumphs in the past and he felt confident that he could do it again.

  The big cop was staring at Hatcher now and talking to Becker, who didn't bother to turn to look. He had been spotted, which did not surprise him.

  Hatcher had not performed well in surveillance technique in training, and even if he had, it would have been hoping for too much to spy on Becker for very long without being detected.

  As Hatcher stepped out of the bushes and started across the field, Becker finally feigned to look in his direction.

  He said something to the cop and they both laughed. The forty yards across empty field seemed like an eternity with their eyes on him. It was like walking into a sniper's scope with Becker looking at him and Hatcher had difficulty with the simple process of walking now that he was so conscious of it. He stumbled once and looked back to find the vengeful bit of turf that had tripped him, hearing the laughter of the cop floating towards him. Simple acts of coordination had always been troublesome for Hatcherhe never knew where to put his hands when talking to someone, and matters of rhythm eluded him entirely. He was used to these embarrassments and quite accustomed to the amusement his discomfort gave to others. He no longer minded when they snickered up their sleeves at him; while they were having such a good time at his expense, they never noticed that he was outmaneuvering them.

  Becker would be reveling in his huniiliation, of course, but Hatcher knew he could turn this to his own advantage.

  He would not waste energy worrying about his pride.

  Becker was bouncing the ball with his whole body now, keeping it in the air off his knees, feet, shoulders, chest, and head. It was an impressive display of control and agility and gave Hatcher another twinge of hatred. A man that age had no business looking as agile as a tap dancer.

  When he got within twenty yards, Hatcher began to smile. It always took him a while to conjure one up, but once he had it securely on his face, he could keep it there for as long as needed.

  "What does your unerring eye tell you about this one?" Becker asked as Hatcher stepped into the open.

  "Definitely a villain," Tee said.

  "Absolutely."

  "A brown suit, black shoes. Looks like a fashion felon at the very least."

  "There's more."

  "Christ, is he stiff! He moves like Nixon." Tee laughed when Hatcher stumbled. "Definitely not a cat burglar."

  "So? Your expert opinion?"

  "As chief of police-you want the official verdict?"

  "Please."

  "There's a snake in the grass approaching us."

  "Close," Becker said. "But a snake at least has the conviction to get right down on its belly. Hatcher does not have that much courage. He's more of a lizard."

  "Friend of yours, is he?"

  "Of long standing," Becker said.

  Hatcher mistimed his approach and stuck out his hand to shake far too soon. He had to walk fifteen yards with his hand thrust forward, a smile fixed on his face.

  "Associate Director Hatcher, FBI," he said, moving first towards Tee.

  "Nice to meet you, officer."

  "Chief," said Becker.

  "I beg your pardon, Chief…?"

  "Terhune. Thomas Tee Terhune. How are you?"

  "A pleasure." Hatcher turned to face Becker as if just noticing him for the first time. "John. How have you been?"

  Becker did not take Hatcher's offered hand.

  "I don't feel like it," Becker said.

  "Pardon me?"

  "I don't feel like doing it. I don't want the case. You can go back."

  Hatcher widened his smile and tipped his face skyward for a second as if overcome by a laugh.

  "Actually…" he started, then Jack joined the company, easing the ball from Becker's hand. "And who is this? You must be Special Agent Crist's little boy. Jack, isn't it?". "You know it is," Becker said. "You boned up on Karen's file on the way here from New York."

  "You're certainly getting to be a strong-looking young man, Jack. Do you want to be an agent like your mom when you grow up?"

  "He's going into proctology instead. The work's the same but it pays better." Becker stepped between Hatcher and the boy as if to protect Jack from contamination. "Go home with Tee," he said. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

  Becker took the ball back from the boy's hands and dropped it to the ground, imprisoning it with a foot.

  "You're looking well, John," Hatcher said as Tee and the boy walked away. His cheeks were burning with humiliation, but his smile was firmly in place. He knew his eyes revealed his hatred, but Becker was not looking in his eyes. He was not looking directly at Hatcher at all.

  "Go down to Springville and talk to the man yourself," Becker said. "You don't need me. You've probably already identified him by his prints on the envelope or the DNA in his saliva on the stamp, for all I know."

  "I'm not sure who you mean."

  "Look, Hatcher, I know honesty is a difficult concept for you, and I don't want you to break a habit of a lifetime and start dealing in it wholesale, but at least fake it for the purposes of this conversation or else this conversation is over. You've been reading my mail, right?"

  Hatcher dropped the smile and assumed his forthright look.

  "Naturally we screen anything that comes in addressed to an agent, for your own safety."

  "I'm not an agent. I'm out."

  Becker got the ball in the air, using only his feet, and suddenly Hatcher was confronted with a maze of blackand-white checks sailing between himself and Becker, each flight a tightly controlled arc coming off Becker's knees and feet. Finally he caught the ball on the top of his foot and held it there Re a juggler waiting for applause.

  "Very impressive, John."

  With another flick, Becker aimed the ball in a lazy arc towards Hatcher, who stepped back, startled, trying to catch it with his hands. The ball fell to the ground and Hatcher stared at it for a moment, as if making sure it was dead before picking it up.

  "Well, technically, the U.S. government considers you to be on indeterminate medical extension. Naturally we all still consider you a part of the team."

  "I quit. I'm not going to do it anymore. I've told that to half a dozen people." Becker wiggled his fingers, calling for the ball.

  "I do see that, but technically-and I hate to be technical, but there are those times when it matters-technically you were put on medical extension before you-announced your dissatisfactions, and just as we cannot dismiss an agent when he is on ext
ension because of stress or other psychological reasons, so, too, we cannot accept a resignation under those circumstances. It might be stress-induced, you see. It wouldn't be right for us to do so."

  "I should have had Tee shoot you. It would have been so much simpler."

  Hatcher tossed the ball to Becker's insistent fingers, throwing it underhanded. To Hatcher's intense annoyance, Becker deflected it off his knee, tapped it with his forehead, and put it into Hatcher's chest. This time Hatcher managed to hold on to it.

  "We do think we know who has been sending you the letters," Hatcher said, struggling against an urge to hurl the ball into Becker's face.

  "Of course you know. That last number was his prison identification number, wasn't it?"

  Becker wiggled his fingers again, calling for the ball.

  "I am told it may have been. I wonder, John, could we go to your house?

  Agent Crist should be back from work soon and it would be good for her to take part in this discussion."

  This time he handed the ball to Becker.

  "Is this a discussion? I've already given you my answer."

  "Inasmuch as it concerns her, too."

  Becker stuck the ball on his hip.

  "How does it concern her?"

  "In her work, I mean."

  "Karen is in Kidnapping. Are you treating this as a kidnapping?"

  "Actually, I'm moving Special Agent Crist to Serial Killings."

  "Why?"

  "Why not? She's an excellent agent and a very competent administrator.

  It's the usual procedure for grooming people for advancement to move them around, get them familiar with as much of our scope of operations as possible."

  "You can't do that."

  "Why is that, John?"

  "I don't want her involved in Serial Killing."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Don't do it, that's all."

  "It's the proper career move for her, John."

  "It wouldn't be good for her."

  "Would you care to elaborate? It might help if I understood just why."

  "No, I wouldn't care to elaborate. She was in Serial once; she has enough experience with it."

  "We do have certain procedures. If it were up to me-, I "It is up to you, Hatcher. It's all up to you. I'm telling you, I don't want her transferred to Serial."

  "I see. Well, it is a little unorthodox. However, you're right, she was in Serial briefly as a very junior agent. Just one case, as I recall, before she transferred out. I don't recall the case in detail."

  "Sure, you do. It was my case. It was your case, too, as a matter of fact."

  "Oh, that's right, John. I'd forgotten… There were some deaths, as I recall."

  Becker glared at him, but Hatcher's bland tone never wavered.

  "Well, I suppose we could fudge things a bit under the circumstances. I could make it a temporary posting for her, just for this one case, then she would be through with Serial for the rest of her career. I don't think it would affect her overall performance rating."

  "Who gives her that performance rating? Not you, by any chance?"

  Hatcher tightened his smile another notch. "Naturally, the quicker the case is closed, the less Special Agent Crist will be exposed to Serial."

  "Meaning if I don't take the case, I'm responsible."

  "There's no connection, John. You and Agent Crist are separate entities-who just happen to live together."

  Becker took a step towards Hatcher and dropped the 'ball, bringing his right foot into it with a massive blow.

  "No!" Hatcher yelled and fell to the ground, cradling his head in his hands. Even as he dropped he realized that Becker was not aiming the ball directly at him. Close, but not at him. If he had wanted to, he could have decapitated Hatcher with the ball.

  Hatcher got to his feet, cheeks blazing with humiliation, but he didn't mind the embarrassment. He had what he wanted.

  He had Becker back at work.

  The Reverend Tommy R. Walker lay on his back on the bed with Rae astride him, naked for a change. Normally she would be wearing her nightgown shoved up to her hips, or a t-shirt that she slept in during the warmer months. Often as not she was wearing her socks, too, complaining about cold toes even in the warmest weather.

  A shy girl, old Rae, Tommy thought, and after the first year or so he didn't much mind if she stayed covered up or not. There not much to look at anyway.

  L however, since Aural's arrival, she'd been shed ding clothes like a Christmas tree dropping pine needles.

  First went the socks, and then the shirt, and lately she'd taken to slipping into bed every night with nothing on at all, primed and ready to go. Tommy had been getting quite a workout, which was another surprise because normally Rae was not one to initiate anything. Now all of a sudden the last few days she was like a bitch in heat, presenting herself to him every time he turned around, naked as a jay and in the full light of day. She had always been a lights-out, curtains-drawn kind of girl before this.

  "Oh, Tommy, you great big-hunk," she said, searching slightly for the word. It wasn't exactly Wung dirty, but it was talking, which was more than she ever did before unless he told her exactly what to say. It didn't matter that it seemed awkward coming from her and was never the right thing-the very fact of vocalizing was interesting.

  He knew it was all about Aural, of course. He had but to mention the younger woman's name and Rae would be rubbing up and down against him as if the thought of her as exciting to Rae as it was to Tommy. The last few times they had talked about Aural while Rae was riding him, him asking questions about what she'd done and said lately and Rae gasping out- answers between her little puffs and pants. This whole business of sitting on him was Aural's idea, he bet. He was fairly certain she'd been giving Rae tips on what to do, because Rae sure as hell had shown no natural gift for the sport before this. Rae seemed to like the position, too, once she got used to being exposed the way it made her.

  "Oh, Reverend," she moaned. "You are so large."

  Tommy told himself not to laugh. The girl was trying and should be encouraged.

  "Thank you," he said.

  "You're like a whole big piece of-ummmm!"

  She closed her eyes and waggled her head from side to side.

  "Like what? A whole big piece of what?"

  "Ummm!"

  He grabbed her hips, holding her still for the moment, which was the last thing she wanted.

  "A big piece of what?"

  She struggled with him, trying to think of something but having trouble with the concept.

  "Sai@," she gasped at last, pushing his hands away and pumping now for all she was worth.

  Tommy knew what the plan was, of course. Rae was hoping to fuck him senseless so that he wouldn't have the strength to think about chasing after Aural. Aural, who was undoubtedly egging her on, was probably hoping the same. But they were wrong on two counts, Tommy thought. One, frequent sex didn't make you want less, it made you want more. Sex was the greatest aphrodisiac in the world, and Rae could bang him three times a day after every meal and he'd still find a way to lust after Aural if he was of a mind. And second, he wasn't any longer of a mind.

  He was still obsessed about Aural, all right, but not to get in her pants. He'd had a taste of what kind of a painful mess that would be.

  What he wanted now was to get rid of her. Quickly, cleanly, neatly. And as they were always saying these days, information is power.

  "Oh, Reverend," Rae was sighing as she collapsed on his chest. "You are the best.":'How would you know?" 'You make me so happy, sugar," she said.

  "How would you know I'm the best? You ain't had but a handful of men in your whole life. Least that's what you told me. You weren't lying to me, were you?"

  "No, honey. A woman just knows these things, that's all."

  "Well, as it happens, you're right. I am the best, but how you would know it is beyond me. Someone like your friend Aural might know, of course. Maybe she took one look at me and told yo
u."

  "I don't need any help to know a good thing when I got it," she said, not wishing to be drawn in. Tommy was frequently a little cruel after sex, but then Tommy was frequently a little cruel anyway.

  "What was you saying about her burning her boyfriend?" Tommy asked, pushing her off him and rolling onto his side.

  "Did I say anything about that?"

  "Well, yes, Rae, you did. Just about the time you was tugging down my shorts. I guess you forgot about it because you found the salami."

  Rae giggled and slapped his shoulder. In the past she would have blushed like a beet and hidden her head. Old Rae was blossoming all around.

  "A good salami makes a hungry woman forget all kinds of things,'-' he said.

  "You," she said, prodding him again.

  "So how did this boyfriend take to being burned alive is what I want to know."

  "I don't think he appreciated it much."

  "I wouldn't think so. How come Aural ain't afraid of him coming after her and tying her to a stake with a can of lighter fluid and a bag of briquettes?"

  "Aural says he's too dumb."

  "Too dumb to want to get even?"

  "Too dumb to find her," said Rae.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Although why you'd want to be with a man who was that dumb in the first place… heavens."

  "Not all women have your intellectual interests in salami, Rae," he said.

  Rae tittered and reached between his legs.

  "It ain't all intellectual," she said.

  He removed her hand. Did she think he was a machine?

  "Even if her boyfriend can't find her, ain't she worried that the cops might?" he asked.

  "Why would the cops find her?"