Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  Thorpe stood and rubbed the side of his own head. His adrenaline fading, the pain from Phipps’ punch began to register. He felt a good-sized knot behind and above his temple. Good thing the strike hadn’t landed two or three inches forward, or Thorpe might be the slab of meat lying on the floor. Three inches between victim and victor.

  Leaving his disassembled pistol in the barn, Thorpe stepped into the daylight. It was the first time in days that he felt he could walk on his own property without the prospect of a bullet stopping him dead. Before heading back to his house, he retrieved his discarded coveralls and used them to protect himself from the brisk February weather. Back inside, he stood next to Corn Johnson’s remains and pulled a six-pack of beer from the refrigerator. Thorpe popped open one of the cans, tipped it toward Corn in mock salute, took a drink, and walked out the door.

  He carried the beer into his backyard and lifted the remainder of the six-pack high above his head. He then tore off three beers and trekked fifty yards into the trees. He left the lager on a stump—an offering to his unknown accomplice—and then returned next to his deck, built a fire in his pit, and sat down with his back to the woods.

  Warm sun on his face, cold drink on his lips, Thorpe tried to make sense of his morning. He wondered if he’d ever know who his accomplices were or what their motivation had been. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to remain anonymous. As he reviewed the events of the last few days, he remembered the man who’d been reported leaving the back door of Phipps’ home.

  Was he the same man who’d today sprung a trap on Phipps and Corn?

  There were too many loose ends, and every time Thorpe tried to grab one, he only reeled in more questions. Was Ambretta helping him? She seemed too smart to become romantically involved with a serial murderer, no matter how dashing Thorpe hoped he was.

  She owed him answers, and he intended to collect. But first he had another visit to make. One collaborator still remained, Sergeant McDonald.

  Thorpe stood and walked into his home, not bothering to turn and see if his beer offering had been accepted.

  Tuesday

  February 13

  Morning

  THORPE ROSE EARLY, PREPARED TO begin his quest for Sergeant McDonald but unsure how to go about accomplishing the task without drawing attention. He’d spent the previous day dealing with the bodies of Phipps and Corn Johnson. Because of potential tracking devices attached to his personal truck and no access to SID units, Thorpe was limited in his disposal options. Ultimately, he waited for Deborah to leave her home then loaded the tarp-wrapped corpses into the bed of his pickup and pulled into her barn. Afterwards, he trekked back to his place and fetched the Polaris ATV he used to work on his property. He transferred the bodies onto an attached four-wheel wagon and drove them several miles west of Deborah’s. After two hours’ work with a pick and shovel, he tossed the remains in the pit. He’d move them to a more suitable location when surveillance was less of a worry.

  Today, without the burden of dead bodies, he decided to start the morning with a phone call to Ambretta’s cell. A recorded voice told him the number he’d dialed was “no longer in service.” A follow-up call to the Renaissance Hotel informed him Ambretta Collins had checked out yesterday morning.

  He was trying to process her disappearance when his cell began buzzing in his hand.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Hull.”

  “Oh,” Thorpe replied, disappointed.

  “That was a warm welcome.”

  “Sorry, thought someone was returning my call.”

  “Don’t be too sorry. I’ve got some good news. You home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m five minutes out. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Good news? He could use some. Thorpe walked out to his gate, opened it and returned to his front porch. As promised, five minutes after the call, Hull rolled up the gravel driveway and climbed from his car.

  “What’s so important to get you out in the boonies this time of the morning?” Thorpe asked.

  “You’re not going to believe what’s happened. I tricked myself into thinking I knew what the fuck was going on, but I guess I didn’t. Jesus H. Christmas.”

  “Spit it out, Bob, you’re killing me.”

  “I was called into a meeting with the FBI this morning—at freaking 6:15 in the a.m. no less. Thought for sure it’d be bad news. Figured they were getting ready to come out here and hem your ass up.”

  “Was Ambretta there?” Thorpe asked, surprised her whereabouts was his first concern.

  Hull looked like he’d bitten into something sour. “Huh? Uh…not exactly…I thought you were in a hurry to hear what happened?”

  “Sorry, Bob, go on.”

  “Last night, Sergeant McDonald committed suicide in a Wichita hotel room. Fucking hung himself from a doorknob.”

  “You have got to be shitting me.” Thorpe didn’t believe for a moment McDonald died by his own hand. The man was too narcissistic to commit suicide.

  “I shit you not. But that’s not the best part. In McDonald’s pocket was a digital recorder, and you won’t believe what they found on it…”

  “Let me guess…McDonald recorded a statement implicating himself in all these murders.”

  Hull stepped back and gave Thorpe a hard look. “What? I suppose that’s why they call you Carnac. I haven’t heard the tape, but apparently he admits to engineering a plan to kill black officers, especially ones who’ve been hurling racial allegations against the department. Apparently he’s a closet white supremacist. The second part of his plan was to frame you for their murders so he could walk. Maybe he resented you for taking his Gangs Unit position.

  “Anyhow, he stated he’d paid Kaleb Moment to phone the FBI and implicate you in some forthcoming murders. McDonald knew he couldn’t trust Kaleb so he whacked the kid after he made the call. Then he killed Stephen Price.”

  Hull shook his head as though he couldn’t believe his own words.

  “McDonald goes on to say he and Brandon Baker were responsible for killing Daniels and Shaw. He says that afterward, Baker freaked and McDonald feared the man would talk. So McDonald killed him and set him on fire to destroy potential evidence.

  “Now listen to this…McDonald also admitted to killing Andrew Phipps and Corn Johnson. Said last night the two of them came to meet him in Kansas and he popped them both. And guess what…we haven’t been able to reach Phipps or Corn on the phone. No one has seen or heard from them since yesterday afternoon; they’re completely off the grid. We haven’t found their bodies yet, but we suspect McDonald’s telling the truth. About them being dead, anyway.

  “Toward the end of the recording, McDonald breaks down. Starts babbling about not being the man he once was. The last words on the tape were apologies to his family. Then he dialed 911, left the phone off the hook, and hung himself from a closet doorknob with a fucking neck tie.”

  Hull’s head wagged back-and-forth as though it were calling his mouth a liar.

  “And the FBI doesn’t suspect it was a murder staged to look like a suicide?” Thorpe asked.

  “They said the man didn’t have a mark on ‘im. No signs of a struggle. Nothing to indicate the recording had been coerced. Plus, who could force a guy hang himself with a fucking tie and a doorknob?”

  Yeah…who could?

  “Still, they’ve gotta be considering me?”

  “Nope. McDonald was staying in an out-of-state hotel he’d paid for with cash under an assumed name. How the hell could you have found him in Kansas while you were under FBI surveillance? They apparently have GPS units on both your trucks and confirmed they’d never left the Mounds area all day yesterday. Plus, Agent Collins stated she’d conducted direct visual surveillance on you all of Sunday and Sunday night.”

  “Collins is my alibi?” Thorpe tilted his head, perplexed. “I thought you said she wasn’t at this meeting?”

  “She wasn’t. I guess she’s already been reassigned…whatever. We
had her on a conference call.”

  Hull held up his hands, palms facing Thorpe. “John, I don’t know what the hell is going on, and to tell you the truth, I don’t want to know. The fact is…you’re off the hook. They have a taped confession that, so far, pans out. And you have a federal agent who can attest to your whereabouts.”

  Thorpe and Hull continued talking for several minutes, but not many more pertinent details were available. It seemed the case had been neatly wrapped up with a pretty silk bow, or in this case, a silk tie. The feds were preparing to descend on McDonald’s house with a search warrant. Thorpe had little doubt they’d find evidence inside the home tying him to one or more of the murders. Evidence likely planted by the man who’d been seen slipping out of the back of Phipps’ home. Whoever Thorpe’s mysterious new friends were, they were quite capable.

  Hull shook Thorpe’s hand, walked back to his car, reversed off the property, and drove away… head still shaking.

  Who was Ambretta Collins and why had she saved his ass? His question might never be answered. Strangely, he found himself far more concerned whether the woman’s feelings for him had been genuine or just a ruse to keep him out of harm’s way. Of all his experiences over the last week, he was amazed his most pressing question didn’t concern her identity but whether her affections for him were true.

  Thorpe stepped off his porch and walked toward his pickup. He had a visit to make, one he’d been avoiding far too long.

  Tuesday

  February 13

  Afternoon

  AMBRETTA COLLINS SAT IN THE darkened confines of a parked Toyota Sequoia. Most federal officers—even those attempting to “blend in”—drove American-made vehicles. Everyone knew that, and was precisely why she didn’t operate one. Ambretta was not an FBI agent. Ambretta wasn’t even Ambretta.

  She did work for the federal government. Though she’d never receive a paycheck stamped “Central Intelligence Agency.” And the memo line would never read, “For kicking Jihad in the balls.”

  Her job—her mission—was to identify, infiltrate and decimate terrorist operations inside the US border. The average citizen remained unaware how target-rich her area of operations had become. If they realized the threat America faced on a daily basis, she might not need to be a spy in her own damned country. She’d liken the US border to a sieve, except that a sieve successfully keeps some of the filth out. Thousands of illegals crossed the Mexican border every week. Did people really believe Muslim extremists weren’t among them?

  America was a nation of laws—and, to a much larger degree, lawyers; people who’d perverted the constitution to such an extent it left law enforcement unable to do its job. Ambretta doubted the founding fathers meant for constitutional protections to apply to foreign terrorists who entered this country with the sole intent of bringing about its destruction.

  More than a few Americans felt these animals should be provided the same liberties enjoyed by United States’ law-abiding citizens. Others believed terrorists should at least be handled under the protocols of the Geneva Convention, though these non-uniformed “combatants” clearly didn’t meet the criteria. These rules shouldn’t be applied to scum who recruited mentally and physically handicapped women and children to blow themselves up in the name of Allah.

  Ambretta knew there have always been patriots doing the dirty work of protecting the very freedoms others wished to extend to enemies of this country. Many of those patriots toiled in the shadows. Ambretta was such a person.

  She worked in the relocation business, arranging discreet, dank and dark housing for men in search of 72 virgins. Before their dates, they were likely milked of information until the tit ran dry. She couldn’t say for certain. Not privy to the entire process, she constituted a cog in a small but efficient machine. Her service to her country would never be printed in a newspaper, not unless she were someday uncovered. In the event that happened, and even if she were inclined to talk—and she wouldn’t be—what information could she provide?

  In many ways, she operated much like the terrorist cells she dismantled. These cells generally had a single objective, remaining unaware of how their plans impacted the overall mission. The cells remained ignorant and independent of one another. If one became compromised, the collective goal remained intact.

  Some cells’ only objective was to exist, thereby diverting limited investigative resources from others of more importance. These “dummy” cells were unwitting bait; believing they’d played a larger role than that of a clay pigeon.

  If Ambretta were to be uncovered by the evil she battled, torture, rape and death were sure to follow. If she were exposed by American watchdogs and picked up for questioning, at least she’d be in the soft, manicured hands of the FBI. The Federal Bureau of Investigations didn’t resort to such “distasteful” interrogation techniques. Somehow she found their hands-off approach both disturbing and reassuring: disturbing because they afforded the enemy the same protections; reassuring because they wouldn’t break her. The only threat they could muster would be the loss of her freedom, and her freedom she’d willingly give. So many others have given so much more.

  If she were imprisoned and did feel compelled to talk for consideration of a lesser sentence, she knew the next disappearing act would be her own. No one could protect her. No facility would be safe.

  It didn’t matter. For now, Ambretta wasn’t permitted to have a broader view of the game in which she played. More often than not, she channeled information up through her handler with little filtering back down. Though accustomed to operating in the dark, recent events had proven highly unusual.

  Why had she been sent to Tulsa? What exactly had been her mission? And what in the hell were they doing at this graveyard?

  Directed by her handler to her current location—a private drive in a sprawling cemetery—he’d looked at her through those creepy mirrored sunglasses of his, told her to wait in the car, and then shuffled off to a gravesite fifty yards distant.

  Just six days ago, Ambretta had been on assignment in Atlanta, Georgia. She’d been working a case there for a month when her handler instructed her to pack up and head to Tulsa. She detected a bit of urgency in the old man’s usually cool and indifferent manner.

  Her handler was nearly as much a mystery today as when they’d first met. He’d promised a rewarding career, but more importantly he appealed to Ambretta’s fervor to strike back at those who’d cut down her father. It was her handler who’d chosen the name she currently used. She’d always thought Ambretta an odd choice, given most in the business assumed unremarkable aliases.

  She’d learned only a few things about the old man’s past. He’d been doing “this” for decades. Before, he’d been a commando in the military. She also knew he’d spent considerable time in a foreign prison where he’d suffered brutal torture sessions that had left him scarred and disfigured. He didn’t complain about the abuse, and only mentioned it to stress that she should always exercise caution.

  Otherwise, she knew little about the man. Meeting him here in Tulsa certainly hadn’t changed matters. In fact, she’d found the information pipeline clogged more than ever. Besides FBI credentials and authority over her “fellow” agents, he’d barely given her enough information to complete her assignment.

  Her handler told her that the NSA had intercepted a phone call, indicating multiple threats against a company asset, one Jonathan Thorpe. Her handler had subsequently interrogated the source (a man named Kaleb Moment) and obtained from him a list of potential triggermen. Then the old man had provided her the same information that the FBI was set to act upon.

  Her task: babysit Sergeant Thorpe while her handler dealt with threats.

  Even though Thorpe was supposedly a “company asset,” she was not to break from the cover she’d been given. As the assignment progressed, she began to feel like one of those “dummy” cells. By delving into Thorpe’s background, reading his file, and through her own personal experiences, she doubted the
man was connected to “the company” in any capacity. Still, she trusted her handler and dutifully carried on with her mission. After all, she’d become accustomed to things not being what they appeared.

  Why then, did John surprise her so? Her attraction had been immediate. She felt his strength upon their first meeting but also sensed a deep affliction—his torment radiating from the depths of those bright green eyes.

  He’d tragically lost his family thirteen months prior, and she empathized with the empty shell before her. She’d wallowed in the same despair, and if not for her work, would have drowned in it. John was smart, funny and considerate. His attributes might be the building blocks of her attraction to him, but their shared loss was the mortar.

  Knowing full well the assignment was a temporary one, she’d had no intentions of developing feelings for the man. But not everything can be overridden with reason.

  Then on Sunday night, the old man informed her that multiple tangos were preparing an ambush in Thorpe’s home. She was to keep John from returning at any cost. Instead she’d upset him to such a degree he’d fled the hotel. His departure stirred within her a mild panic—not because she’d failed her assignment—but because she feared for the wellbeing of a man with whom she’d fallen in love.

  Armed with rohypnol, she’d fetched John from the bar and could easily have slipped him the heavy sedative. Despite reason, despite logic, she’d led him to her room where they made love. The night proved not only a physical release, but an emotional one as well. She hoped Thorpe realized the lovemaking had been genuine, that she hadn’t seduced him as part of a job assignment.

  Her job assignment—she still didn’t know what it’d been all about. And why was her handler standing over a headstone when they should be en route back to Atlanta?

  Because an unexpected meeting with Thorpe would be “messy,” as the old man had put it, Thorpe’s personal truck was still outfitted with a GPS tracker, which they continued to monitor. Someone else would remove the device later. As with many of Ambretta’s assignments, this someone would have no clue why the tracker had been installed; they’d have a simple task to perform, no questions asked.