[Sam Archer 08.0] Last Breath

by Tom Barber

  Beside him, Archer opened up a map of the United States on an I-pad resting on the table. ‘If he went north, he could go for the Canadian border, or back to Boston or Portland. South is Philly, Pittsburgh, Atlantic City, Baltimore.’

  He paused, looking at the next major city past Philadelphia on the I-95.

  ‘Or D.C.’

  Shepherd noticed the hesitation. ‘No way, Archer.’

  Archer didn’t take his eyes off the city’s dot.

  ‘Look at the map,’ Shepherd said. ‘He’s got hundreds of square miles of wilderness to disappear into, not to mention smaller, more low-key cities. Why would he go to the home of the FBI, CIA, NSA, the most government-agent populated location on earth?’

  ‘He was treated at the Veterans Affairs centre there for almost a year. He knows D.C.; he knows it well.’

  ‘No reason to think he’d run there.’

  ‘But a wounded animal heads home, right?’ Marquez said, considering Archer’s train of thought. ‘And as you said, what if he’s not done putting people down yet? If he doesn’t detour to Baltimore, D.C. is logically the next major city in his path.’

  ‘That would be crazy,’ Shepherd said. ‘The FBI are declaring a Federal manhunt across the entire East Coast. If he dropped another victim in the US capital city, he’d be dead or in handcuffs before he could even make it off the Beltway.’

  ‘Snipers attacked D.C. before, remember?’ Archer replied. ‘And they weren’t easy to capture. Their victim tally reached double figures. It took three weeks to apprehend them.’

  Shepherd focused on him, knowing when Archer had latched onto something. ‘Why are you so sure he’s going to D.C.? What aren’t you saying?’

  Archer looked at him, then Marquez.

  ‘One of our last nights in camp, he and I were talking. He asked me about my family, and I told him that my sister and her husband lived in D.C. He told me he’d lived there for ten months attending the Veterans Affairs centre for soldiers who’d come back from the frontline and were dealing with post-traumatic stress.’

  Marquez and Shepherd listened in silence.

  ‘They gave him and some other guys a project to focus on, repairing an old bookstore in the Southeast of the city, helping them work together and do something productive. Had to replace the floorboards, paint it, the whole deal.’

  He paused.

  ‘I thought he was just talking about his recovery, but then Ledger told me during the repairs, he left something behind one of the panels. He wanted me to know about it.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘A stash box. Money, weapons, food and clothes. Apparently quite a few ex-military or government agents do it in case they end up in the shit for whatever reason. Said that if I was ever in trouble that it was there for me to use too. I appreciated the gesture, but thought he was being paranoid and almost forgot about it until now.’

  ‘Did he know anything about your past?’ Shepherd asked. ‘Unusual thing to tell someone.’

  ‘I heard rumours about what happened to him in the military; that failed operation where he was the only survivor. I think he just didn’t want to lose any more friends.’

  No-one said anything for a moment. The low-volume reporting from the protests BBC America were showing filled the quiet.

  ‘He needs to stay off the grid, but he also needs to resupply. He’ll need money, a change of clothes, food, potentially another weapon, and he can’t use a store in case he gets made. A guy with his experience could get in and out of D.C. without anyone noticing.’

  He glanced at the I-pad map.

  ‘And that’s if he’s not done shooting.’

  ‘You think he’s going to D.C. because he left a cache of supplies there?’ Shepherd said. ‘That’s still one hell of a stretch, Arch.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Archer said, pointing at the television, which was showing the latest CNN report of the investigation. ‘Check it out.’

  A sighting had just been reported from the Maryland State border on the I-95 highway, cameras showing roadblocks, State troopers and sniffer dogs illuminated by the flashing lights from the police cars as they stopped and searched vehicles.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Marquez said. Beside her, Archer zoomed in on the map on the I-Pad, the I-95 leading down from the Maryland border.

  ‘Next city in his path is Baltimore,’ he said. ‘The FBI will assume he’s going there. But he’s not going to Baltimore, or Pennsylvania, or into the woods somewhere.’

  He looked at Marquez and Shepherd.

  ‘I think he’s headed for D.C.’

  THIRTEEN

  Archer’s belief that Ledger was running to D.C. was suddenly starting to make a whole lot more sense. Marquez and Shepherd looked at the I-pad, then Shepherd glanced at Archer. ‘What was the name of that bookstore?’

  ‘Haverbrooks and Sons Books. The rhyme made it easy to remember. It’s in Buena Vista, anyway; won’t be hard to find. From what Ledger told me, that neighbourhood isn’t exactly overrun with bookstores.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Marquez said. ‘Call it in to the Feds?’

  ‘Or we find him ourselves,’ Archer said.

  ‘FBI discover we withheld this additional information regarding Ledger’s possible whereabouts from their investigation and that you have a personal history with him, we’re all in seriously deep shit,’ Shepherd said.

  ‘Or we call it in and they put so much security on that bookstore that Ledger takes off. He’s too good to walk into a trap and then we lose our chance to get to him.’

  Shepherd swore. ‘So we go down there and hope he turns up?’

  ‘Not all of us,’ Archer said. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘FBI ordered us to stay out of this,’ Marquez said. ‘You need a cover story, otherwise it’ll be one hell of a coincidence that you just decide to go to D.C. right now. They could charge you with obstructing justice, withholding information and aiding and abetting a fugitive.’

  ‘It’s my niece’s birthday in two days. I already sent a card but I could use that as an excuse to visit. I’ll go tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re meant to be meeting Alice tomorrow for vacation,’ Marquez said.

  ‘I’ll move my flight to Dulles. I can use Maia’s birthday as an excuse to head down there and duck out for an hour or two to look around and check out that bookstore. See if Ledger raided the stash or if he’s holed up inside. If he’s not there, no harm done, and if the FBI find him before I do, then so be it.’

  ‘And if you’re right and he is there?’ Shepherd asked.

  ‘Then I’ll find out just what the hell is going on.’

  Neither Marquez or Shepherd said any more. Archer pulled out his phone and scrolled for the airline’s number while Shepherd continued to watch the manhunt images on the screen, the reports of the Maryland State border sighting all over the network.

  When a map of the US east coast was shown, all three pairs of eyes settled on Washington D.C.

  ‘We’re giving him an entire day’s head start,’ Marquez said. ‘This is our one chance. We need to hit the highway right now and get down there before he’s been and gone.’

  ‘You saw how much Oxy was left at his apartment,’ Archer said. ‘If he doesn’t have any with him, he’s going to be feeling terrible pretty soon. He has to sleep at some point. I think he’ll hole up at that store, eat the food, change his clothes and rest before heading out.’

  ‘So what now?’ Marquez said. ‘We do nothing and just go to bed?’

  ‘If they catch him, our job is done,’ Shepherd said. ‘If they don’t, Archer can go to D.C. tomorrow.’

  Archer stayed silent, watching the television as his phone connected to Delta Airways.

  They won’t catch him, he thought.

  *

  Twenty two hours later, Archer had found Ledger, his guesswork right on the money. As he’d pulled up on the street at the back of the bookstore, planning his approach, he’d seen a figure in ball cap, t-shirt and jeans taking off
down the sidewalk with a gun in hand, immediately recognising his friend.

  Keeping his distance, Archer had tailed him in the Honda as he ran and watched him force his way into a house as a group of rioters appeared at the end of the street. Waiting in the car, Archer had seen the rioters take off moments later, chased by several police officers; the road now clear, he’d parked at the back of the house Ledger had just broken into, pulled his Sig and got out of the car, quietly letting himself in through the back door.

  But then everything had been thrown into a tailspin.

  Archer had barely slept last night; he’d found it impossible. Lying in bed, and later sitting on the train to D.C., he’d had plenty of time to wonder why Ledger would or if he even could do something like this, something so completely out of character. Was his friend capable of this? How well did he know him? The mind was a fragile thing and some of the shit people in law enforcement and the military had to deal with would be enough to short even the strongest circuit. He knew of several good men and women he’d worked with who’d snapped, and Ledger had that history of attending PTS treatment at the Veterans Affairs’ Centre here in D.C. after his time in the army.

  But just now two cops had shown up out of nowhere, apparently intending to kill Ledger and whoever was with him.

  And deep down, a nagging doubt that had been whispering at the back of Archer’s mind since he’d first heard Ledger was the lead suspect was starting to find its voice.

  Seeing another mob on the road ahead, Archer cursed and swung down another side street. Turning towards a Bridge that led back over the Anacostia, Archer slowed, seeing the flashing lights of police cars ahead; the FBI had reinforced the roadblocks.

  ‘Shit, we’re trapped,’ he said.

  ‘So let’s go hand him in!’ Jesse said.

  ‘Those men back there were dressed as cops,’ Archer said, spinning the wheel and turning right.

  ‘So?’

  ‘We’ve got no idea who we might be turning him in to.’

  Turning down another side street and putting some distance between them and the mob he’d just avoided, he stopped the car and pressed Call before lifting the phone to his ear. On the cross street they’d just left, a police car flashed past, followed by another.

  Then another group of protestors rounded the corner in front of them, all masked and carrying bats or bottles.

  ‘Goddammit, these people are everywhere!’ Archer said in frustration, his phone to his ear.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Jesse asked, his eyes widening as he saw the group ahead.

  ‘Calling for help.’

  Hearing no ring tone, Archer frowned, looking at the screen. The call wouldn’t connect. Swearing, he tried again, then looked at the bars.

  The signal was gone.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Jesse said, the group of rioters getting closer, some already launching missiles in their direction. Keeping the phone in his left hand, Archer reversed, then took off down a road to their right.

  After another hundred yards he pulled to a stop as Jesse looked behind them in agitation; Archer quickly pulled off the back cover of his phone, ripped out the battery and withdrew the SIM card before looking up at a street camera mounted on a post to their right, one of many throughout the neighbourhood, feeling eyes upon them.

  ‘We need to get off the street right now,’ Archer said, looking back at Ledger. ‘If those cops or any of these rioters find you you’re a dead man, Harry.’

  ‘Tell me something…I don’t know,’ he said, clutching his shoulder.

  ‘Where we gonna go?’ Jesse said, looking around them in panic. ‘The police have this entire place locked down.’

  Frustrated by his lack of knowledge of the area, Archer suddenly remembered the business card Jack had given him earlier. Reaching into his jeans pocket, he pulled it out, showing the address on the card to Jesse.

  ‘Are we close to this place?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied, looking at the address. ‘It’s about ten minutes away.’

  ‘Can you get us there?’

  He nodded, pointing left. ‘Yeah, it’s that way!’

  Without another word, Archer spun the wheel and took off.

  In the north-east of the city, Peralta and Font had just pulled up outside Jeremy Somers’ home address in the Brightwood neighbourhood, a twenty minute drive from Wilson High. After what had happened at the school, Somers’ house needed to be locked down and examined by law-enforcement but was also under guard in case of possible reprisals. In situations like this, even the most seemingly level-headed people could do unpredictable things, especially if their children had been threatened.

  Metro officers from the local District were already at the house, some inside the property while others kept back news crews, the sun setting behind them as cameramen set up their positions. Bulletproof vests still strapped over their shirts, Peralta and Font showed the officers outside their badges before walking up to the house.

  A Metro officer stationed in the hallway turned as they walked in.

  ‘How many we dealing with?’ Peralta asked.

  ‘Just the foster mother,’ he replied, indicating the room to his right. ‘He was the only kid in her care right now.’

  Standing in the doorway to the sitting room, the two FBI agents saw a middle-aged woman hunched over in a chair, a pair of officers and an EMT team there with her. She was clearly in shock. Outside on the street, more news teams were starting to arrive, the increase in noise as they set up getting a reaction from the woman, who looked nervously at the window.

  As he watched her silently from the doorway, the tragedy of the situation wasn’t lost on Peralta. She was mourning the sudden loss of a foster son while the rest of the city would be relieved to hear of his death, knowing it could have been so much worse. Life could be remarkably cruel.

  As the EMTs continued to speak quietly with her, the two Boston agents turned and went up the stairs, looking for the teenager’s bedroom. Locating it, they walked in to find two FBI Forensics investigators already in there. The room looked like a typical fourteen year old boy’s den, a variety of posters on the walls, a computer system on a desk, clothes strewn haphazardly everywhere. However, it was the computer that caught Peralta and Font’s attention. The system looked pretty high-tech.

  ‘Expensive,’ Font noted immediately. ‘My brother has a set-up like that.’

  ‘It’s all bought and paid for,’ one of the investigators said. ‘Found receipts in the upper desk drawer. Entire thing cost him almost two thousand dollars.’

  ‘How’d he get money like that?’ Peralta asked.

  ‘Lady downstairs said he had a part-time job at a supermarket around the corner and saved up for over a year to buy the system. Apparently it was his pride and joy.’

  ‘Also reinforces his school shooter psychological profile,’ Peralta said. ‘He saved for over a year. Means he was methodical and patient.’

  The investigator nodded. ‘That’s what we thought.’

  ‘Anything related to the school incident on there?’ Font asked, looking at the computer which was still on.

  ‘It’s password protected but we’ll pack it up and get a tech team on it back at Hoover. They’ll dig around for a manifesto, suicide note, check his search history, social media and documents; everything. If there’s anything there, they’ll find it.’

  Peralta and Font both nodded, looking at the posters and some sketches on the walls. Iron Man, Captain America and Batman, all in heroic poses. There was also something hanging from a hook above the dead boy’s bed, a white mask with dark eyebrows, black trident facial hair and the lips curled upwards in a smile.

  ‘Found some of his reports stowed in a drawer,’ the investigator continued, holding up a sheaf of stapled papers. ‘Almost all As. Kid was smart.’

  ‘Not exactly the stuff you’d expect to find on the bedroom walls of an attempted murderer,’ Peralta said, still looking at the posters as Font stayed silent. Following Pe
ralta’s gaze, the investigator nodded.

  ‘Been doing this job thirteen years and I still can’t figure people out,’ he said. ‘Especially kids. You expect to find dark stuff, you know? Or evidence of a low-functioning mind. But that’s frequently not the case.’

  ‘A high IQ doesn’t stop someone from becoming a killer,’ Font said. ‘Sometimes, it’s just the opposite.’

  ‘Where’d he get the gun?’ Peralta asked the investigator.

  ‘Registered to his foster mother. Glock 20, home-defence weapon. She has a permit. It’s gone from the drawer of her bedside table.’

  ‘Only thing to figure out now is why he took it to school in the first place,’ Peralta added.

  ‘Most obvious reason I can think of is a vendetta against someone in class,’ the investigator said. ‘Know if he had any bullying issues?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to figure out,’ Peralta said. ‘But all the students will say every bad thing they can think of about Somers at the moment. They’re in shock. Once they’ve calmed down, we’re more likely to get some honest answers.’

  The investigator nodded. ‘Then I guess we’ll just have to be patient. We can speculate as long as we want, but talking to people who actually knew the kid is what’s going to give us some clues.’ He tapped the computer screen with a glove-covered knuckle. ‘With their statements and what we find on this thing, we stand a better chance of figuring out what was going on in his head.’

  Seeing there was nothing else in the room to interest them, Peralta turned to Font, who was staring at that mask on the wall, the smiling face with the trident goatee.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Peralta said.

  The two FBI agents turned and walked back downstairs. Continuing through the hall, they left the house and headed back out into the late-afternoon heat, walking over to their car in silence. The press had set up their cameras down the street and were filming them, but the agents from Boston ignored them as they climbed into their vehicle.

  As he closed his door, Peralta saw a grim look on Font’s face. Being in the boy’s bedroom seemed to have unsettled her.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ he asked.