by DB Carpenter
He recalled one Christmas when he was seven, he had played with an antique ceramic Santa Claus statue, one of his mother's few prize possessions. "Leave it alone," she had said repeatedly but he couldn't. Something about the shiny little figurine with its white beard, rosy cheeks and little bag of presents caught his fancy until one day it slipped from his hands. When the yelling was over, he had fished the shattered remains out of the trash and attempted to glue it back together. It had been futile – sometimes things can't be fixed.
The trees on the side of the road zipped by the headlights as the speedometer crept past seventy miles an hour. Subconsciously he depressed the accelerator. Tears welled up as he relived the moment he walked in on Karen, recalling every little detail – how could she have done this to me? The thought bounced around his mind, reverberating, growing in intensity. He didn't want to admit that he had lived a lie for the past eight years. She had been stepping out all along and covering it up with his insecurities – and he had known, he had just refused to believe it. The road suddenly took a sharp turn to the right.
He cut the wheel hard, and the car started to slide. For the first time in too long he glanced down at the speedometer. Oh my God! The tires skidded on the loose dirt. The car shot off the edge of the road, up a slight embankment and went airborne. He clutched the wheel with both hands and prepared for the impact.
11:10 pm Boston, Massachusetts
Pell woke up slowly. He lay in the dimly lit room listening to the machines and let his gaze wander before looking down at the wires and tubes that sprung from his chest. He was in bad shape.
A nurse opened the door to check on him. This was a different one. Less friendly looking. She took her time filling in the information on his chart before saying, "An FBI agent has been given permission to speak to you again. He's been outside your room the whole time."
Pell moaned.
"If you don't think you're up for it just say so."
He wanted to put it off but they would just hound him until he spoke with them.
"Shall I let him in?" She asked.
"I suppose so," Pell replied.
The nurse went to the door and motioned Agent Strange over. "I've been given strict orders, Agent Strange. If anything like what happened here earlier today happens again, I'm to call security and have you removed from the room. Forcibly if necessary. Do you understand?"
"Sure thing, Honey," Steve said. "I'm just going to ask him a few questions, that's all."
She looked back over to Pell. "I'll be at the nurses' station. Push your call button if you need me."
Steve walked in and pulled up a chair next to the head of the bed. "Well, Pell, you're in a mess."
Pell stared back blankly.
Steve touched Pell's arm as he said, "Carl wants me to call him as soon as you come around."
"Then why don't you?"
"I wanted to talk to you alone first."
"About what?"
"About Carl. This whole thing. He's on some kind of vendetta against you."
"You figure that out yourself or did someone help you?"
"I also know what really happened with that cop up in New Hampshire. He's not dead, by the way."
"Really?"
"He'll be fine after a little rehab."
"Thank God," Pell muttered.
Steve continued, "At your request, Carl's going to get Arthur Kent involved."
He could remember infuriating Carl but the details of the conversation escaped him. The heavy medication then and now clouded his memory.
"He wants to know what Maurice Andleman told you. It doesn't look like the old guy's going to make it. Personal opinion, Sarah Burns exists, and she's probably done exactly what you said. We need to find her, and you're probably the only one who can give us any information."
Pell nodded. He had to be careful. Steve Strange sounded so sincere, friendly. They could have given him something to make him talk. Steve could have easily injected any of the many available truth serums into one of his IV lines while Pell slept and was now working him. After all, this was the Bureau – justice at any cost.
"You don't have to tell me anything. I'll find out once you talk to Arthur. There is one thing, though, that I think might help you out." A sinister grin spread across his face, and he leaned closer. "I don't like Carl. As a matter of fact, I hate the son of a bitch."
"Welcome to the club."
"Let me tell you a little something about our beloved SAC that you might find useful when you and Arthur talk."
He leaned down so that his lips brushed Pell's eager ear and started to talk in a whisper, "I know for a fact that Carl isn't the Mr. Clean everyone thinks he is. Six weeks ago I noticed, or really, stopped to think about some things – a quirky schedule, unexplained absences, real expensive tastes – definitely living beyond his Bureau means. He's moody by nature but it was getting worse. He kept jumping all over my shit, not as bad as what he does to you but damn close and I got sick of it. So I did a little digging."
"A little?"
"Okay, a lot," Steve said. "Carl's no dummy. He's hid it well but not well enough."
"Carl's dirty?" Pell said. The heart monitor unit up-tempoed it's lethargic rhythm. "What's he into?"
"I'm not entirely sure but whatever it is, it's serious. It could just be opportunistic greed on his part but that doesn't feel right. I think it's probably more like someone has something on Carl and is blackmailing him. Either that or they managed to scare him." Steve paused and glanced out into the corridor. "There's definitely others involved but I haven't worked out who all is part of this yet."
"But what's he doing?" Pell asked.
"It looks like Carl has been involved in a scheme to steal and sell military equipment."
"Military equipment?" Pell said. "That doesn't make any sense."
"I don't know if it makes sense or not but he is into it up to his eyeballs."
"So what do you know?"
"They're moving lots of arms. Some of it's Viet Nam era crap but some of it's not. I'm not quite sure what Carl's exact role is yet. Maybe it's just turning a blind eye or maybe it's more of an active role. All I do know is that he's involved. The prick's arming the enemy and making money hand over fist."
"That mother fucker," Pell said. "And he's always so righteous."
"Don't I know it."
Pell shook his head. "Jesus Christ, why haven't you done anything with this?"
"I just made the final connections a couple of days ago and then this Sarah Burns thing came up. I haven't had time to pull it all together yet."
"How long have you been with the Bureau?"
"Five years."
"All here?"
"Yes, sir. Working for our buddy Moscovitz."
"So gut feel, is it real? Do you have him?"
"Gut feel, you bet. But you and I know what the Bureau thinks about gut feels."
"Worthless."
Agent Strange smiled. "Yep, absolutely worthless."
"So you got something better?"
"Much better."
"Like what?"
"Proof."
"Solid?"
"Oh yeah," Steve said. "It's amazing the data we in the Bureau have access to and if you've got some decent computer skills and a college roommate who works for the NSA, all of a sudden the ephemeral details of a carefully hidden life become clear, if you know what I mean."
Pell stared at the young agent for a long moment. He had twenty years of dealing with people who were lying, some of them good at it, others not so much but he trusted his instincts and this kid was very believable.
"So what? Why are you telling me this?"
"Well, if you're going to get Arthur Kent here…"
Pell smiled. "Why me? Why not take it to Arthur and make a name yourself?"
"They use the Allen Jenkins case at the Academy. It's a case study in decisions. You got screwed, Pell. Me and the other recruits talked about it over beers after that class and we all would
have reacted exactly like you did. Anybody would have. Hopefully, this will give you back some of your reputation."
Pell's drugged eyes watered up. Everything was coming full-circle as Steve Strange pulled an envelope out from the inner pocket of his jacket, passed it over to Pell and said, "Everything you need is in here. Do yourself a favor and give this to Arthur."
9:54 pm PDT Eureka, California
The car hit hard as it came down and bounced up again, threatening to roll over to the left. He cut the wheel in that direction. Small trees smashed into the front fender and slapped at the windows as he careened through the woods out of control. He pressed on the brakes, but the tires couldn't get a grip on the soft forest floor.
Suddenly the trees cleared as he streaked out onto the side of a road. The car went into a skid. This time he didn't simply plow through some young trees. As if someone steered him toward it, the car swerved and slammed head-on into a giant pine tree.
The airbag deployed and slammed Chris back into his seat as the world around him exploded with the sound of crushing metal and shattering glass. The symphony from hell overwhelmed him and he blacked out briefly. He came around to the sound of the airbag slowly deflating and the hissing and ticking of the shattered engine.
"Jesus Christ," he said as he pushed the airbag out of his face and kicked open the jammed door. Outside, he gave himself the once over, surprised he was in one piece. Tomorrow he'd be sore, but for right now he was okay.
The front fender and grill wrapped around the huge tree, giving it a twisted metal hug. The hood was popped open and mangled. Steam poured from the shattered radiator.
The car was totaled, and worse than that, he was now on foot in the middle of the vast woods in the dark. He climbed back into the car and grabbed his backpack. After rummaging for a few minutes in the dark for his cell phone, he found it and decided that now was as good a time as any to get Carl involved.
Standing outside, he turned on the phone, hoping that it would work in this wilderness. After an interminable time, the roam light finally started flashing, and he dialed information back in Boston for the FBI.
He looked up at the star-filled swath of sky between the immense trees that lined the road and listened. Nothing. He couldn't hear cars on a distant road, an airplane overhead or anything to insinuate that he wasn't the only human alive on the planet. What he could see of the horizon in any direction was dark – no glow from a city or town. Sweet Jesus, this was a predicament. It was going to be a hike to get out of here.
The computerized voice gave the number for the FBI and he dialed it.
After a couple of rings, a voicemail machine answered and told him that the office was closed for the day. It was the middle of the night back home and he wasn't going to be getting any help until the morning. He turned off the phone and sat on the trunk.
His options were limited – sit and wait to see if someone would come by, climb into the backseat and catch some sleep, or hike out. None of them sounded good right now, but one thing was for certain, he wasn't in the mood to just sit around and wait, so he decided to hike out.
As he made a move to get going, headlights, about fifty feet away, suddenly turned on and shone brightly in his face. He froze. Someone had seen the crash and had just sat there watching him. Why hadn't they helped him? His instincts told him to make a run for the woods, but he ignored the urge and stood there. The car wasn't running, and after a minute, he heard doors open and close. Two shadowy figures appeared in front of the headlights. He couldn't make out their faces but he could see that they both held shotguns.
"Hello?" Chris said.
They ignored the salutation.
"I had an accident," Chris said.
Again they were silent.
He started to walk toward them.
"Stop right there," the man on the left said as he leveled his gun. Chris stopped.
"What do you want?" The other one said. They had thick accents, or maybe they just talked real slow.
"I don't want anything," Chris replied. "I just had an accident."
The two men looked at each other and Chris noticed the faint, red glow of a cigarette in the car. There were at least three of them.
"Why're you trying to reach the FBI?"
"It's a long story. Who are you?"
The man on the left pumped his shotgun. "What do you think, Ted?"
"Hold on a minute, Jake," the other man said. "Before we do anything rash –"
"He was trying to call the FBI. He's probably a narc. Do you want to go back to the pen?"
"No," the other man said in a conciliatory tone.
"Then let's waste him."
"I don't know?"
"I say we shoot now and ask questions later."
"Just a second, guys. I don't work for the FBI or the cops. I don't know who you are or what your deal is, and I don't care. I was trying to find someone who lives out here. I've got no beef with you."
The smoker climbed out of the car but stayed in the shadows. Only the slowly moving tip of his cigarette was visible. "Who were you looking for?" The man asked. His voice was much clearer than his partner's. He spoke in an unmistakable northeastern accent – a fellow Yankee.
"Why were you driving so fast? You on the run?" The man on the left said as he started to walk toward Chris. "And why were you calling the Feds?"
"It's a long story," Chris replied. He felt disconnected, like he was having a bad dream and couldn't wake up – maybe he hit his head in the crash.
Jake walked behind Chris and prodded him with his shotgun to walk toward their car. He kept the gun barrel pressed firmly into Chris' back. If he made any wrong moves, Jake could blow a hole in his abdomen big enough to put a fist through. He was at their mercy.
What was he going to say? Was there any chance of escape?
"Put your hands on the hood," Jake said as he pushed him into the bumper and frisked him. "He's clean," he said after a painfully thorough search.
"Of course I'm clean," Chris said. "Like I told you, I was looking for someone out here. I followed him from LA, and we got separated just as he turned onto the dirt road."
"Who was it?" The voice from the dark asked.
"Albert James Winslow."
"And you say you followed him from LA and then you got separated right up here?" Jake asked as he turned Chris around. For the first time, Chris got a good look at him. He wished that he hadn't. The man was tall and lanky with a ratty, unkempt beard that covered most of his face – a jagged scar ran from just below his left eye, down his cheek, under his chin, and disappeared into the collar of his faded, black Allman Brothers t-shirt. He definitely wouldn't be winning any handsome contests.
Jake smashed the butt of his shotgun across the side of Chris' face, knocking him to the ground. His head rang. Pain exploded from the spot where the gunstock had made contact.
"Jake, hold on a minute," Ted said.
"Hold on, my ass. You follow somebody for that long and then lose him? He's lying. And look what he had here in his jacket pocket. I told you he's FBI," Jake said as he held up Pell's ID wallet and spat on the ground narrowly missing Chris. "Stand up," he ordered.
The two other men walked out from behind the car so Chris could see them. Ted looked very much like another version of Jake – without the scar. The other man was clean shaven and dressed in a suit. He looked like he could have come straight from work at a bank or an insurance office, and appeared out of his element here. What were they doing out here in the middle of nowhere at this time of night in the first place?
"Now listen, mister," Ted said. "Jake's getting nervous, and I can tell you from experience, you don't want to make him nervous. So if I were you, I'd start talking – real fast. Who are you and what are you doing here? And you best not be feeding us a story. Got it?"
Chris nodded as he looked at each man individually. He wasn't sure what to say. He was too confused to make up an elaborate lie so he decided to tell them the truth – the w
hole story – and hope they bought it.
"Start talking," Jake said pushing the shotgun into Chris's side.
"All right. My name's Chris Foster. Last Sunday I was fishing at my camp in northern Maine..."
The banker had time to smoke several cigarettes while Chris told them about his ordeal. Ted and the banker listened intently, but Jake kept looking around as if he expected something to happen.
"And that, as unbelievable as it sounds, is how I ended up here with you," Chris said. "So, like I told you, I could care less who you are and what you're doing out at this time of night with guns. I just want to wash my hands of this whole thing. I was trying to do my part, and all it has brought me is grief..."
His three captors looked at each other.
"Sounds like a bunch of BS to me," Jake said.
"Didn't you hear what I just said? What sort of idiot would think I made this story up on the fly?" Chris snatched the ID from Jake's hand and held it up. "This isn't even me. Look at the picture, does that look like me?"
Ted took the ID from Chris and examined it with the light on his iPhone and then tossed it to the banker saying, "It ain't him."
"I told –"
Jake rammed the barrel of his gun into Chris' chest and said, "Who you calling an idiot?"
Chris turned his attention to the banker. "Come on, buddy. I'm not making this up. All I want to do is make sure the authorities are on the case, that they've got as much information as possible to find this Sarah Burns woman and then all I want to do is get as far away from here as possible and forget the whole damn thing. I don't know what you're all about, but you've got to look at the big picture. These zealots want to change the course of mankind. It's bigger than whatever you have going on, and it's the only reason that I'm even here."
"Hey Ted, didn't you say you saw people out at the old McGuire place?" The banker said.
Ted nodded. "Yeah. I noticed lights on up there tonight on the way down here. You think it's them?"