The Devil You Know

by Sam Sisavath

  The downed trooper was heavy, and she wasn’t making good progress until a figure appeared next to her and grabbed the trooper’s other hand. Owen, his own shirt pulled over his mouth and nose to stave off the gas. They exchanged a nod and dragged the trooper toward the front of the van, away from the smoke.

  Bang!

  A gunshot, and it had come from the back of the van.

  Then two more—bang! bang!—and then silence.

  Quinn grimaced each time, imagining widows and children standing over the graves of dead state troopers in a state cemetery somewhere. But she couldn’t do anything about that, because even with Owen’s help the trooper was heavy, and it took seemingly forever to finally reach the other side of the shoulder.

  She quickly let go, and, struggling to breathe, ran back toward the squad cars. She hadn’t heard anything after the last two gunshots but didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  Don’t kill them, Sarah. For God’s sake, don’t kill them!

  Quinn hadn’t reached the thick of the still-widening plume of smoke when she started coughing and her eyes began watering. She pushed her way forward anyway, using the spinning red and blue lights as a beacon. But she wasn’t sure if that was the first trooper’s car or his backups. She wasn’t sure about much of anything—

  A hand grabbed her left arm, and Quinn spun, raising one fist to strike, when she saw a familiar face in the smoke.

  “It’s me,” Sarah said. “Come on.”

  Sarah pulled her back to the van, away from the smoke. Every step meant she could breathe easier, and soon Quinn was able to pull the shirt down.

  She glanced back at the lights. “What happened? What did you do?”

  “They’re fine,” Sarah said.

  “Fine? What do you mean they’re ‘fine?’”

  “Maybe not fine. But they’ll live.”

  How? Quinn was going to ask when she saw where Sarah’s other hand was—pressed against her side. Thick red drops fell from her elbow and left a trail on the road with every step she took.

  “You’re hurt,” Quinn said.

  “One of them got in a lucky shot,” Sarah said.

  Owen was waiting for them at the van. “We good?”

  “We’re good,” Sarah said.

  “She’s been shot,” Quinn said.

  Before Owen could say anything, Sarah said, “Let’s go. We have to get rid of the van and find a new vehicle as soon as possible. We can’t afford to get stuck out here in the middle of a manhunt. Aaron’s waiting for us in Houston.”

  Quinn thought Owen would argue, but instead the older man nodded and hurried around the van. That surprised her. Weren’t they lovers? Didn’t he care that Sarah had been shot?

  Apparently not that worried, Quinn thought as she climbed inside the vehicle with Sarah. Reiko and Rick grabbed Sarah and sat her down, while Quinn took the seat next to her.

  “Into the back, you two,” Quinn said.

  “Look who’s in charge all of a sudden.” Rick chuckled, but he and Reiko followed orders and climbed into the rear seats.

  Owen was already pulling them back onto the road, leaving the swirl of red and blue lights and slowly dematerializing white clouds behind them.

  Quinn turned on the ceiling light and focused on Sarah’s wound. “Take off your jacket.”

  “I’m fine,” Sarah said.

  “The hell you are. Your jacket, now.”

  Sarah gave her an annoyed look but did as she was told.

  “What happened?” Quinn asked.

  “I told you, one of them got off a lucky shot.”

  “I heard three shots.”

  “But only one lucky shot.”

  Quinn stared at Sarah’s face. The other woman had that impossibly (annoying) calmness about her, seemingly unaffected by the tear gas while Quinn’s own face was still itching, her eyes feeling like they were on fire.

  “What did you do?” Quinn asked.

  “I took care of it,” Sarah said.

  “How?”

  “They’re still alive, Quinn. All three of them.”

  “Three? How the hell did you take out three troopers in the middle of all that tear gas—”

  Quinn didn’t finish because she was too busy staring at Sarah’s side after pulling up her shirt. She wiped at the blood, searching for the gunshot wound she knew was down there—had to be down there. Except there was only puckered flesh underneath all that blood, like a fresh pink scar that was starting to heal days (weeks?), and not minutes.

  She looked up at Sarah. “You’re one of them. You’re Rhim.”

  “I was Rhim,” Sarah said.

  Quinn glanced back at Reiko and Rick behind them. They both shrugged back at her as if to say, “Oh yeah, that.”

  It was the same with Owen, looking back at her in the rearview mirror. “I told her to tell you before you found out for yourself.”

  Sarah pursed her lips and sighed. “Porter wasn’t the only one to betray the Rhim, Quinn. He wasn’t even the first.”

  Chapter 14

  Zoe

  “Stacy Baker,” Craig Mansfield said. “Police responded to an anonymous call about screaming and banging coming from her apartment. They think it was one of her neighbors; the call came from inside the apartment complex. But no one’s come forward yet.”

  Craig paused. She would think he was doing it for dramatic effect if she didn’t know he was here not because it was his job, but because he was her friend.

  “Friend?” Who are you kidding? You’re sleeping with him. That doesn’t make the two of you friends.

  So how did she explain what Craig was doing here? Or why he had asked one of the guards to keep his visit off the books as a favor, then got her moved from the main holding area and into a private cell so they could talk in private? He also didn’t have to reveal what the detectives working the case had on her. And yet he had done all those things.

  He looked disheveled, as if he had been freshly rustled from sleep. There were bags under his eyes and a general look of fatigue that made him seem like he was the one behind bars right now and not her.

  “I didn’t kill her, Craig,” Zoe said.

  “But you were there?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I went to ask her about what happened at the school.”

  “And?”

  “And we talked.”

  And I might have gotten her drunk, she thought, but didn’t think adding it was going to help her case.

  She said instead, “I swear to God, Craig, she was alive when I left her apartment.”

  Craig scrunched his nose, a telltale sign he was lost in thought. She didn’t know what he was thinking about right now. Was he trying to decide how much truth she was telling? Or maybe trying to understand what he was doing here, after hours, when it wasn’t even his case and he could get in a lot of trouble for even discussing it?

  “Craig,” Zoe said, “do you believe me? Say you believe me.”

  He nodded. “I believe you.”

  She managed a smile. “Thank you.”

  He tried to return it, but it came out halfhearted. “When’s Joe sending over your station’s lawyers?”

  “They already came.”

  “Already?”

  “Just a couple of junior associates from the law firm we have on retainer. The seniors, the ones who’ve handled criminal cases before, were out of town, but they’re on their way back now.”

  “How soon before they show up?”

  “Tomorrow, at the latest.”

  “I don’t suppose I have to tell you? Don’t say anything without those guys present. Don’t sign anything or answer any questions.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Craig.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “I know. I just thought I should mention it. Not everyone can think straight after they’ve been accused of murder. You can forget about bail, too.”

  “I know.”

  “Just…stay quiet.” Craig briefly glanced up and down the hallway
for eavesdroppers. “Don’t say anything to anyone except your lawyers. I can’t reiterate that enough, Zoe.”

  “How bad is it? I know it’s bad—I’m in here, so I know it’s pretty damn bad—but how bad is it really?”

  “I didn’t get a long look at what they have, but there’s enough to hold you and deny you bail.”

  “Can you tell me more?”

  “People recognized you coming and going, for one. You’re famous.”

  “I’m not that famous.”

  “More famous than yesterday, after that stunt you pulled at the school. I’ll try to get a look at the physical evidence they collected from Baker’s apartment, but I don’t know if I can.”

  “Why in the world would I kill Stacy Baker? That makes no sense. I didn’t even know who she was until today.”

  Craig shook his head. “I don’t know, Zoe. But they must have enough to get the arrest warrant signed. It’s…” His eyes wandered to the floor, and he wrinkled his nose again.

  “What?” Zoe prompted. “What is it, Craig?”

  “It’s not unheard of, but it’s rare,” Craig said, looking back at her.

  “What is?”

  “It took them less than four hours to put the case together, from the time they found her body, to detectives arriving, CSI collecting evidence, and for them to come up with your name. That’s impressive. I mean, it’s happened to me before; sometimes an investigation just comes together and you get handed a viable suspect in no time flat, but it’s rare.”

  Four hours…

  She’d spent most of that time at the mall looking for Aaron. Meanwhile, someone was killing Stacy Baker.

  But why? Why?

  “The guy in charge is Brooks,” Craig was saying. “He’s a good detective. Better than most, actually.”

  “Why did they think it was me?” Zoe asked. “Besides the fact I was seen at her apartment. There has to be more.”

  “I don’t know, Zoe. I didn’t see the arrest warrant. Your lawyers will know more when they get here. I’ll try to talk to Brooks tomorrow—he’s already gone home—and see if he’ll give up anything. It’ll be tricky; I can’t let him know about our relationship.”

  Our “relationship.” And what is that again, Craig? Lovers? Fuck buddies?

  “Do you know how she died?” Zoe asked instead.

  “She was bludgeoned to death. There was massive trauma to the back of her head. The uniforms that responded said there was blood everywhere.”

  “Jesus,” Zoe said. She was going to be sick, and remembering her last image of Stacy, asleep on the couch in her living room, only made it worse.

  She stepped away from the bars and kept going until she was on the other side of the cramped cell and could sit down on the bench.

  “You okay?” Craig asked.

  Zoe grabbed her stomach and bent over. She wanted to gag, to vomit out the guilt, but she only managed a low wheezing noise and some haggard breaths.

  “Zoe…”

  She leaned back against the cold and gray cement block wall and squeezed her eyes shut. “I didn’t kill her, Craig. I swear to God, I didn’t kill her.” She opened her eyes and looked across at him. “Tell me you believe me.”

  “I told you, I believe you.”

  “Tell me again.”

  He nodded and smiled, and this time it wasn’t nearly as forced. “I believe you, Zoe. You don’t have it in you.”

  Are you sure about that? she thought but didn’t say it. She was too afraid to.

  “You’ll get through this,” Craig said. “You’re the toughest person I know. Just remember all the mistakes people make when they’re arrested, that you’ve covered in the past, and avoid them.” He glanced down at his watch. “I have to go, Zoe.”

  She looked past him at the clock on the wall. 10:14 p.m. She was supposed to be on the air right now doing her star-making exposé, where she revealed the existence of a third person at the school. It would have been explosive and contradicted the FBI-HPD press conference that claimed there were only two terrorists. She had even considered asking Joe to bring Stacy in so the teacher could give a firsthand account, even if it meant sharing the spotlight.

  How did it all go so wrong? And so fast? She didn’t even see it coming. Not even for a second.

  “Zoe,” Craig was saying, trying to get her attention. “Did you hear me? I have to go. I told Allison I was going out drinking with the boys after work, but I can’t risk her calling one of them and asking when I left the bar.”

  She nodded. “You should go, then.”

  “You going to be okay?”

  She managed a barely-credible smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I can ask my friend to bring you some things. Toothbrush, toothpaste, maybe something to eat or drink while you’re still in the main holding area. I know the food in this place sucks.”

  “I’m fine, Craig. I’ll…be fine.”

  Craig nodded, even though she knew he didn’t believe her. “Just remember—don’t talk to the cops.”

  That elicited a genuine smile from her. Craig, a police detective telling her not to say anything to the police, was simultaneously ironic and tragic.

  “Thanks for coming, Craig,” she said instead. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Hey, I’m not going anywhere,” Craig said. “I might not be able to do anything for you in the open, but I’ll be around. If you need me…”

  She got up and walked back to him and slipped her hands through the bars and pulled him close for a brief kiss on the lips.

  “Go,” she said.

  He nodded, pursed his lips at her, before disappearing up the hallway.

  She watched him go and waited almost five minutes before the same female guard who had moved her over to the cell showed up and took her back to the one with three other people already sleeping inside.

  Zoe found an empty wooden bench and sat down and listened to the snores of her cell mates. She should have been tired and sleepy and completely drained emotionally and physically, but it didn’t matter how many times she closed her eyes; sleep wouldn’t come.

  So she did the next best thing and opened her mind and let it wander, replaying the events of the day in her head.

  The school.

  Stacy.

  Aaron.

  Aaron.

  Her thoughts kept going back to the teenager, to what he had said at the food court before the police came for her.

  “We were trying to find him when they found us,” the teenager had said, referring to John Porter, the terrorist who was killed over a week ago at the Wilshire.

  “You’ve said that before,” she had replied. “They. And before that, it was them. Who are we talking about?”

  “The people who are either going to make you the most famous reporter in the world, or the ones who are going to destroy everything you hold dear. The question is: How much are you willing to risk in order to find out the answer?”

  That last sentence stuck with her, and she repeated it in her mind.

  “The question is: How much are you willing to risk in order to find out the answer?”

  He had said it with such determination, such earnestness, as if he truly believed it. She thought he was just a nutter, a conspiracy truther who wanted to blame someone (usually the government) for all the troubles in his life.

  But now, sitting in a jail cell in downtown Houston, she wasn’t so sure. Because she didn’t kill Stacy, but someone had, and that same “someone” had framed her for it.

  Why?

  Why would someone kill Stacy?

  Why would they frame her?

  Why?

  WHY?

  Sleep eventually came, albeit grudgingly and with her mind still full of questions (Why did someone kill Stacy Baker? Why had they framed her? Why was Aaron so insistent about Porter still being alive?). According to the clock on the wall across the hallway, she woke up two hours after she drifted off, to dimmed lights and a male guard crouching in the
hallway almost directly in front of her.

  Zoe froze.

  When he saw her opening her eyes, the guard held one finger up to his lips.

  The presence of a man here, in the women’s wing of the detention center, sent off klaxons in her head, but before she could do anything (like scream for help), the man took something out of his pocket and placed it on the smooth, tiled floor inside the cell. She could just make out the thin matted black candy bar-shaped phone in the low lights.

  The device slid across the cell and didn’t stop until it bumped into one of her shoes. Zoe instinctively lifted both feet up from the floor, as if she was afraid the phone was going to explode. The guard stood up, gave her a slightly amused grin, before turning and walking away.

  Zoe half-hopped, half-fell off the bench and hurried over to the bars. She peered out and followed the man as he vanished through the door at the other end.

  What the hell was that about?

  She glanced back at the phone, then looked around at her cell mates: the two thirty-somethings sharing a bench to her left, huddled against each other because it was too cold inside the building, and the heavyset twenty-something who looked like she could beat (or eat) all three of them if she was hungry enough. They continued snoring, oblivious to what had happened.

  Zoe walked back to the phone and picked it up. It was plastic and cheap to the touch, the kind of burner phones people bought at convenience stores, used up all the minutes, then tossed away because it was easier and cheaper to buy a new one than reloading. It was also almost identical, except for some minor differences in the packaging, to the device Aaron had been using at the mall.

  She was staring at the phone when it began vibrating loudly.

  No, it wasn’t loud at all. It just seemed that way because this part of the holding area was so quiet.