by Nick Pirog
I looked at the list and put myself in his shoes. Who would I kill next? Who was in jeopardy? I came up with six names.
Chapter 25
The next thing on my to-do list was to talk to Lacy. She was most likely the last person to interact with Ashley Andrews before she was killed. I dialed Lacy’s cell and she picked up on the first ring, “Hey.”
She sounded grim and I countered, “Sucks.”
“I can’t believe she’s dead. First Jennifer, now Ashley. What’s going on?”
I ignored her question. “Did Ashley say anything to you in the car?”
“Nothing important. Just sex talk.”
“Was she getting any?”
“She was always getting some. She was a slut. A cool slut, but a slut nonetheless.”
“Where was she headed after she dropped you off?”
“She wouldn’t say, but she had an I’m-about-to-do-some-kinky-ass-shit look on her face.”
A thought struck me. What if Ashley had been fooling around with Tristen? I changed the subject, “So what do you have planned today?”
“Caleb’s coming to pick me up in about ten minutes to take me to the gallery. I have a meeting with a lady from the MS Society and a caterer. Oh, and I need you to take care of Baxter until we can move back home. Conner almost killed him last night when he found him asleep on some suit he’d just bought.” She paused for a half second, then asked, “When are we moving home?”
Good question. I told her to give the pug to Caleb, hung up, and dialed Mr. Barstow. He didn’t try and hide his despair over the phone, audibly broken over Ashley’s death. I told him I needed three more guys to help out with surveillance. He said he’d make some calls and to meet him at a bar a couple blocks from campus in a couple hours.
It was almost noon and I was starving. If I were going to yell at Alex I might as well do it over a burger and fries. I dialed her number and she picked up. She knew I knew about the article, and I knew she knew that I knew. I think we both found it easier to act like we didn’t know.
Alex pulled into the Burger King parking lot two car lengths ahead of me. I parked next to her and the two of us ghosted to the burger joint entrance. I was nice enough to let her hold the door open for me, seeing as I was a selective genius and a selective gentleman.
I was in an artery clogging mood and ordered a double Whopper, large fries, and a vanilla milkshake. Alex’s eyes darted to the salad menu and she bit her lip as she said, “I’ll have the same.”
I visualized her calculating the math in her head. I think the caloric intake equated to back-to-back marathons.
We found a booth and each ate a fry awaiting the other person to speak. I was the only one with any ammo and said, “Write anything good lately?”
She swallowed a fry. “Yeah, I wrote a book. Maybe you’ve heard of it, Eight in October? Number one on the New York Times best-seller’s list as of today.”
I was going to ask her when I could expect my royalty check, but settled on, “I was thinking more along the lines of journalism.”
Alex took a huge bite of her burger and I might be mistaken, but I think I heard her jaw dislocate. She grappled the bite down and said, “An article of mine ran in the Waterville Tribune a couple days ago.”
“I was thinking more like today.”
She looked up into her brain and it was my turn to take a bite. I lifted the burger with both hands, brought it to my lips, and was left with only the top and bottom buns eclipsed between my fingers. Alex cackled as I attempted to piece my burger back together. I was halfway through an enthralling game of burger Jenga when Alex answered my question, “Nope, I didn’t write anything that ran in today’s paper.”
I stood up, tossed the wayward burger in the trash, and coincidentally spotted Exhibit B in the receptacle. I snagged the discarded copy of the Waterville Tribune, sat back down, and flipped the paper open. I pointed to her story and said, “You didn’t write this?”
“Nope.”
“Hmm. But, it says your name right here. You sure you didn’t type this story?”
She had both cheeks full of burger, but somehow managed, “I told it to someone over the phone and they typed it.”
“Big deal. You’re not getting off on semantics.” Yes, she would.
“Yes I will.” See.
“When?”
“While I was in hiding at the lighthouse.”
Made sense, that’s why all the second half details were lacking. That’s also why she hadn’t noticed Tristen’s loitering, she’d been gabbing on the phone. I checked my watch, it was a little after one. I was to meet Caleb and his recruits at one-thirty. I grabbed my fries and shake and said, “You’re working for Tristen Grayer. Your stories are paying homage to his evil. Promise me I won’t see your name on another story in the Waterville Tribune.”
She promised.
I turned to leave and said, “I can’t believe your boss lets you get away with this shit. He’s going to get his ass sued.”
Over my shoulder I heard, “She.”
I turned.
“She’s going to get her ass sued.”
When I arrived at the bar, I wasn’t surprised to see Caleb sitting at a table with three of my other students; Blake, Tim, and Tim. To save a couple trees here; Blake is black, Tim 1 is tall, Tim 2 is fat.
They had a couple pitchers on the table and lying between them was Baxter. They handed me a frosty glass and we toasted Ashley. None of us cried, but funny enough, we all developed the same allergy to beer. The five of us took down the pitchers fast and I dropped the ball on them. They were all thrilled to be selected and doubly to help take down their friend’s killer. The six women from the list I felt were in harm’s way were Caitlin; Lacy; the three other female students in my class, Kim Welding, Ali Marker, and Holly Gibbs; and Alex Tooms. Caitlin would have more than enough protection with the three Agenteers, Caleb seemed like he was doing a fine job with my sister, I put my other students on their classmates, and I took Alex.
I’d picked up three pairs of long-range walkie-talkies on the way to the bar and divvied them out at my car. I told the Thomask Force, as they’d aptly named themselves, the channel we’d be sticking with and to pack like they were going on a three-day camping trip. I also told them they could count on an FBI goon showing up on each of their mark’s tails in the next twenty-four hours. They all drove off with grins on their faces and I don’t think it was attributed to the booze.
By six-thirty that night I’d dropped by a mini-mart and picked up enough food to last me and Baxter the next seventy-two hours, bought three books on CD, ordered new carpet for Lacy’s room, and was now stationed outside Alex Tooms’ gateless drive.
I picked up my walkie-talkie, turned it to channel nine, and said, “Everyone on their mark?”
I received three, “Checks,” and one, “Get set. Go.”
This was going to be a long night. I ran through some stakeout protocol and airway decorum, then ended with, “You can catch a couple winks tomorrow during the day, but I don’t even want you guys blinking tonight.”
I looked for Baxter but it appeared he’d had an episode and was snoring up a storm in the back hatch. I tore the cellophane packaging from one of the books on CD and slipped the first disk in the drive. A voice shouted, “Welcome to Prey by Michael Crichton.”
How fitting. I was listening to a book entitled Prey while I was trying to protect Tristen Grayer’s prey. Does irony come any thicker? After the first disk played through I looked at Baxter, who at some point had apparated into the passenger seat, and asked him, “Do you understand any of this shit? Explain a nanoparticle to me.”
He couldn’t and I started Disk 1 over. I was listening to the first disk a third time when the walkie-talkie crackled, “Hey, would you guys rather have a dick on your forehead or balls on your palms?”
Balls on my palms.
Definitely.
Chapter 26
Wack. Wack. Wack. I casually opene
d my eyes to daylight peeking in from every angle. Wack. Wack. Wack. What’s with all the wacking? I brought my seat up and read the clock, 7:30 A.M.
Wack. Wack. Wack.
I calmed my heart beat down under two hundred and rolled down the window. “You scared the crap out of me.”
Alex was wearing short maroon Boston College running shorts and my red Nautica sweatshirt. She said, “Let’s go.”
I told her one minute and rolled up the window. I picked up the walkie-talkie and said, “Rise and shine maggots.”
All parties were accounted for. I guess I’d been the only one to take a nap. I called Lacy to make sure she was okay and she said Conner had just left and she was going out to breakfast with Caleb. So the good news was that nothing had happened last night. The bad news was the Range Rover smelled like dog doo.
It took me a minute to locate Baxter. I eventually found him in the pocket behind the driver seat, looking the part of a Joey in his mother’s pouch. I hopped out of the car, opened the back door, and lifted him from the pocket. Baxter hadn’t gone out of his of way to hide his push and I pulled the pouch open. It looked like someone emptied a bag of Reeces Pieces in there on a hot summer day.
I turned around and tossed Baxter on the grass near where Alex was stretching. Baxter landed with a thud and rolled to within a foot of her. So, it’s cats that land on their feet, not narcoleptic pugs.
Alex looked up at me in horror and said, “You killed him.”
If only I was so lucky. “He’s probably not dead. Sometimes it takes a couple throws until he wakes up.”
I changed into my second pair of Asics and plopped down next to Alex. Baxter was alive and trying to wiggle his way underneath Alex’s leg and into the warmth of her running shorts. Looked like Baxter and I had more in common than our nanoparticle knowledge after all.
The two of us walked and jogged for the better part of an hour and I had to credit Baxter, he only fell asleep a few times, and only once with his head in a gopher hole.
We were about a quarter mile from her house when Alex started picking up the pace and said, “Race you to the door. Loser buys dinner.”
I let her get a sizable lead then turned on the afterburners. Alex called it an asskicking, I called it a photo finish. Either way I would be footing the bill for dinner.
I showered, put on my black tweed pants with a lavender dress shirt, and sat down to a plate of sausage and eggs. I could get used to this. I took a swig of orange juice and a thought came to me. “You never asked why I was sitting in my car outside your house.”
“Oh, I just figured you were staking my house out in case Tristen Grayer decided to try to kill me.”
I cleared my throat and tried to speak but nothing came out. Had I walked to Alex’s door during my little siesta and confided this all to her?
She asked, “Are you going to follow me around all day?”
“Why? Are you going to try to give me the slip?”
“No. In fact, I made you an itinerary while you were in the shower.”
How thoughtful. She slid a piece of paper to me and I unfolded it. Alex’s day schedule was rudimentary and PG, her night register on the other hand, was lurid and NR-17. Remember she is a professional writer. Here are just a couple flag words I encountered in her “overnight” allotment; wheelbarrow, coitus, engorgement, pollinate, zenith, flora and fauna, carnal appetite, and habeas corpus.
I followed Alex’s Jeep to the Waterville Tribune building in downtown Waterville. It was a small, white, clapboard building, huddled between a ninety-nine- cent-store and a Hallmark shop. Alex walked to my car and asked if she could borrow Baxter. Well, don’t put a gun to my head.
She waved Baxter’s paw at me and disappeared into the building. I had no intention of sitting there for the next eight hours and drove off. When I was on the highway I dialed Caitlin and said, “We need to talk.”
We met at a coffee shop in walking distance of the Federal Building. I was sitting in a black wiry chair at a black wiry table in the back of a counterfeit French coffee parlor when Caitlin pulled up a seat across from me. Caitlin sat down, a beacon of poise and abatement. She was wearing a black skirt and a tan sweater, looking the part of off-duty librarian. Was I supposed to read into this? Was she trying to tell me something? Did I have an overdue book?
Everyone knows breakups are done like Band-Aids, but I wasn’t sure what this was. This was more of a You’ve just been one night standed and I wasn’t sure how to proceed.
Caitlin and I sipped our drinks in silence. Halfway through my drink, I noticed Caitlin had developed a previously nonexistent allergy to Caramel Macchiatos. I don’t like making women cry, I swear, I don’t.
I set my coffee down and said, “I’m sorry Caitlin. I don’t know what I was thinking . . . We never should have . . . I mean . . . You know what I mean.”
For some reason she didn’t look like she knew what I meant. She nodded and found a tissue in her handbag. After a couple dabs she said, “Thomas, I love you, but if you don’t love me then you have to be true to yourself. It would be selfish of me to think otherwise. So, if you don’t love me, tell me, so I can get on with my life.”
I told her and she left.
Chapter 27
After my breakfast, breakup, breakdown, I broke neck to the breakwater. I did a hasty walk through, took some mental snapshots, and left as quickly as I came. Next stop, Lacy’s gallery. I decided to keep the news of Caitlin’s and my demise to myself. For all I knew, Lacy wasn’t wise to the fact there was anything to demise.
I opened the door to the gallery to Lacy’s bugle, “Conner says you and Caitlin are back together. That’s great.”
So much for Plan A.
I went to Plan B; deny, deny, deny. I denied and Lacy didn’t bite, “You’re the worst liar. Don’t tell me you hooked up with her, then broke it off, again.”
Plan C; blame, blame, blame. I blamed and Lacy shook her head, “Yeah, I’m supposed to believe Caitlin forced you to sleep with her.”
Not in so many words, but at one point I did have a gun trained on me. I kept this to myself and told her what really happened while she gave me the grand tour. I gave her a bear hug when I left and told her I wanted her at arm’s length from Caleb at all times. She winked at me and said, “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
I was walking outside in the parking lot when I saw Conner getting out of his Camaro. He walked over and I asked, “What’s up?”
“Lacy said she needed to talk.”
Uh-oh, could this be the first brother-sister dump of a brother-sister in the history of the world. Now I understood why Lacy had said, Arm’s length from Caleb at all times, “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
I gave him ten minutes until he was doing the Dodd’s eye dab. I quickly changed the subject, “So what’s your game plan for tonight?”
“Agents are driving up from the Boston Field Office as we speak. We should be able to post a man on all twenty-seven women.”
“I thought they were coming in yesterday.”
“We decided against staking out last night, seeing as it wasn’t a hot date and all.”
Conner fit right in with these FBI bozos. I had my doubts about last night but at least I’d been prepared. Granted, I’d slept for close to seven hours, but that was beside the point. I said, “So that’s it, protect the masses, don’t let him get close enough to strike.”
He paused too long and I kicked him in the shin. “Tell me.”
He rubbed his shin and said, “We’re using Caitlin as bait.”
“You’re what?”
“We figured if we have her staking out a house by herself, she’ll appear vulnerable.”
I laughed. “So you’re staking out Caitlin doing stakeout.”
He nodded.
The reason these idiots never solved a case is because they never respected their opposition. They appraised Tristen Grayer as being incompetent when he most likely had an IQ higher than their little task forc
e combined.
I patted Conner on the back and said, “Good luck with that.” Caitlin couldn’t be safer if she was on a desert island, in a bubble, with a chastity belt on.
I pulled up to the Waterville Tribune building at four on the dot. Two more hours to kill. I put the second disk of the Prey book in and after thirty minutes I had two of three migraine symptoms and had called information twice.
I pulled the key from the ignition and decided while I was at the Waterville Tribune building I might as well pop into the Editor in Chief’s office and put the scare of death into her. I opened the door and walked into a bustling newsroom. No front desk. No secretary. Just twenty people behind laptops trying to meet deadlines.
I tapped a young man of about twenty-five on the shoulder and asked him where the boss’s office was. He gave me a once over and said, “You’re Thomas Prescott.”
No use trying to get anything by this guy. I said in my best cockney accent, “Nopers. But if you see him, tell him General Van Furgle is looking for him.”
For some reason he looked confused and I moved on to the next guy in his row; who directed me to a large office in the back right corner. I weaved my way through the maze of desks and didn’t happen by Alex nor did I see an unoccupied desk with a pug shaped paperweight. Alex’s Jeep was parked where she’d left it earlier. She was probably in the break room, or in the print area, or maybe she’d caught the red eye to Belize with Baxter. Lucky dog.
I came to an office that reminded me of my ex-captain’s in my Seattle PD days. It occurred to me how similar a newsroom and a police department were, most noticeably the number of criminals present. I surmised the office was that of Alex’s she-boss seeing as Queen Bee was stenciled where Editor in Chief had been scraped off.
I rapped on the glass—the white shutters on the inside swayed—and a hollow female voice yelled, “Come in.”