by Jeb Bohn
His hand reached for the door and he spilled out onto the ground to find himself someplace new. There was still smoke, the smell of gasoline replaced by that of burning wood. There was a large house engulfed in flames. To the side he saw a body smoldering in a chair. In the tree line beyond stood two silhouettes and he heard Ambroise’s voice: That burnt body wasn’t Mel.
The sentence echoed in his ears as he snapped back to reality.
The Tall Man’s voice came back through the phone. “Are you there?”
“I’ve gotta go.” He ended the call before his friend could protest and raced to his desk, searching for articles about the Louisiana explosion and the house fire that followed. Once he had a loose timeline, he began digging deeper into the members of Schultz’s team he could identify before moving to crime reports.
With shadows now crossing his office floor, Herman had assembled a crude dossier. Beginning with Schultz, he built a hierarchy, scanning social media and public records for anything that could produce more information. Most didn’t seem to have any online presence and the ones that did only revealed pictures of kids, pets, and food. In terms of background records, there were traffic infractions and a twenty year old shoplifting charge. He reflected on Ambroise’s words and changed course.
He whittled through a dozen name matches before he found a page titled Find Melanie Stroud. Browsing the page, he saw that this Melanie had disappeared from her home in southern Oregon nearly four months prior. He scrolled through countless posts offering thoughts and prayers before landing on one that caught his eye:
That poor family. First Dennis and his wife and now Mel is missing. What’s going on around here?
Herman stretched his back, wincing as it popped. “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question.” Using the photo on the webpage he located the profile of the presumably deceased Melanie Stroud, scrolling through her pictures until he found one with the caption dinner with my brother and sister in-law. He opened a new browser tab and found Dennis Stroud’s obituary, which he compared to the photo on Melanie’s page. “Bingo, we’ve found our Ms. Stroud.” Pulling up an article about her disappearance left Herman with an uneasy feeling in his gut. There had been no other disappearances in that area of the state for a few years and no signs of forced entry or foul play and her house.
At first he thought she had simply left to join up with Greg Schultz, but she had left behind a well-paying job and a fiancé. While that didn’t rule anything out, her profile suggested that she was deeply invested in where her life was. Would she really put all that aside for revenge?
His cell phone rang and he decided to ignore his impulse to let it go to voicemail. It was Victor Whitestone, Ray’s younger brother, calling with information for the funeral. Herman stammered, unsure of what to say and feeling guilty for it. He vowed to be at the funeral and wished Victor a good night, only then remembering that he still had to retrieve his car.
Herman called Detective Rosewood to let her know that he would be gone for a few days, news that she initially argued against. She eventually relented on the condition that he stay in touch, even agreeing to have the deputy outside escort him first to his car and then to the Virginia State line. He threw some clothes together, grabbed his laptop and phone, and headed out the front door where he was promptly greeted by the deputy.
He guided his escort to the car’s location, feeding him a story about having let a friend borrow it to go fishing and finding himself too drunk to drive. Herman became anxious, wondering how his homemade suicide modifications would be received only to see that the Tall Man had removed everything. He thanked the officer and slid into the driver’s seat, a sick headache flaring up as he thought about what he had tried to do a few short days ago.
Pushing that aside, Herman turned the car around and maneuvered it onto the road with the deputy in tow. With the NC/VA border approaching, the cop flashed his lights and pulled into a cut through, setting Herman loose on his journey. Once he was in Virginia Beach he promptly got a room and requested a wake-up call. On impulse, he texted a link regarding Melanie’s disappearance to the Tall Man, asking him what he made of the timeframe.
By noon he was at the church shaking hands with people, some he hadn’t seen in years and others he’d never met. He was looking for one man in particular: Walt Regin. Walt had been close with Ray and happened to have been good friends with Dennis Stroud. Herman hoped that he’d show, scanning the doors and crowd until he spotted him, holding up a hand to draw his attention. The men greeted each other and began talking, the service starting before Herman could get to the question he most wanted answered.
As time came to move to the graveside service, Herman offered Walt a ride, wasting little time in getting to business. “You were friends with Dennis, right?”
Walt pursed his lips, unsure of where this was going. “Yeah, just about twenty years. Why?”
“What do you know about his sister?”
“I know she’s dead.”
Herman turned to face his passenger. “Do we really know that?”
Walt sucked his teeth. “What the hell is going on, Herman?”
Herman stammered. “I know this is nuts, just bear with me.” Herman explained Melanie’s involvement with Greg Schultz, how her disappearance didn’t sit right with him, and Ambroise’s proclamation that the woman killed in Louisiana was not Ms. Stroud.
Walt put his hands up and shook his head. “Herman, she’s dead. The medical examiner had her dental records sent for verification. For Christ’s sake, I was at her funeral.”
Herman sagged. “Okay, I just want to make sure I don’t overlook anything. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be an ass.”
That evening, Herman was making his way to the hotel bar when his phone rang. It was the Tall Man, asking if Herman had talked to the police. He sounded relieved when he was told that units had been monitoring his house. The relief left his voice when Herman said he was out of state for Ray’s funeral; he urged him to go home immediately after. Herman countered by saying that one deputy wouldn’t mean anything if another hit squad showed up.
Not wanting to argue, the Tall Man changed the subject. “What’s the deal with that link you sent?”
“I’ve been looking into Schultz’s crew.”
“Oh you have, have you?”
“Something about Melanie Stroud just bugs the shit out of me.”
“Maybe that’s because you’ve got the wrong Melanie.”
“No, that was Melanie Stroud, the Melanie Stroud, sister to Dennis, deceased journalist.”
“You sure about that, Herman, because I’ve never seen that woman before.”
“Come again?”
“That’s not the woman that was working with Schultz.”
Beget the Unraveling
Schultz paced a downstairs bedroom in an old farmhouse, his limbs flailing and spasming. Each irrational thought in his mind was forced out by one more crazed. When a light tapping started at the window he assumed he was hearing things. The sound persisted, his eye twitching with each rap. He grabbed his phone to hurl at the glass only to see Melanie standing there, one finger pressed against her lips. “I need to you listen to me, Greg.”
He shook his head. “You’re not here, I’m not seeing you.”
She smiled softly. “Yet here you are, talking to me. It’s time to end this mission, that means killing Samuel Wright.” She told him that in three days Wright would be in California for an event near Brawley. “You can take him out, you can take the plant out, and you can broadcast it to the world.”
Greg began pacing again and when he turned back to the window, she was gone. He soon found himself wandering through a field, wisps of fog dancing around his feet. In a rare moment of lucidity, he realized that he needed help to shake the rage that had propelled him since his family was taken. He lay on the ground, staring at stars that were obscured by plumes of breath. “Okay, Greg, do it, just get it over with.” Hauling himself up to a sittin
g position he pulled a handgun from the waist of his pants, placing it under his chin and gritting his teeth. “Come on you fucking coward, do it.” He threw his head back and howled; frightened by the woeful sound, a herd of deer fled.
A voice cut through the fading echoes. “Greg?”
Schultz gained his feet, pointing the pistol towards the source.
“Jesus, Greg, it’s me.”
“Who’s me?”
“Hodges. Christ’s sake, you’re gonna freeze your nuts off out here.”
Hodges told him that he had come to find the source of the noise, concerned of a repeat of Louisiana. Schultz wobbled, shaking his head. “You’re lying to me.” Hodges protested, cut off mid-sentence by a bullet to his right eye. Schultz returned the pistol to his waistband, grabbing the dead man by his ankles. He had rolled the corpse into an irrigation ditch when another member of the team showed up.
“What the hell’s going on out here, boss?”
Schultz turned and shot the man twice before tossing his body next to Hodges’. He went into the house, showered, and went to sleep as the sun rose.
◆◆◆
The Tall Man drove through long shadows as he approached the house. After twelve hours of observing the Sioux Falls plant, he was ready for some rest. He followed a bend that led to the rear of the house, quickly noticing that all the vehicles were missing. Once the car was turned off, everything was still, the distant engine of an ATV the only sound. He exited, gun drawn, and began walking towards the house when he saw something attached to the front door.
It was a note.
The cold realization hit him that everyone in the house had been killed, the culprit again leaving a note behind.
It broke my heart that you all left like rats in the shadows while I slept. I should blame myself for judging character so poorly, but I have a job to finish. Guilt will drive a few of you back here, but you won’t find me. Instead, you’ll find a parting gift suitable for traitors.
He glimpsed the rear end of a box truck as he ran from the porch before shifting focus to his car. Everything fell silent and he realized his feet were no longer touching the ground. He gasped for air as gravity regained its hold, slamming him off the roof of the car and onto ground. He saw and ATV and two men, one with a phone to his ear. With the ringing in his ears lessening he heard a vehicle speeding away. “Schultz,” he said before his eyes closed.
◆◆◆
“Who?”
Rosewood was patient as she gave Herman the details. “Amanda Marsh, she showed up at your house about an hour ago. I take it you don’t know her?”
He didn’t know her directly, but her last name triggered a thought. “Any relation to Edward Marsh?”
“She says she’s his daughter and she’s very adamant that she talk to you.”
Thoughts ran through his head in pieces like a poorly cut jigsaw puzzle. Was somebody after her? What was she so eager to discuss?
“Herman?”
“Yeah, I’m here, I’m just thinking.” He told her that he would be home in the next hour and a half and that he was open to talking to Ms. Marsh as long as the detective deemed her credible. Rosewood said that her information checked out and agreed to bring her to Herman that evening. He spent the remainder of his drive obsessing over what he would hear, wondering how it may help his current situation, and lamenting on how it may have helped in his first run-in with QNI.
He pulled into his driveway as the sun dipped below the horizon, detective Rosewood emerging from her cruiser sporting a severe look. “Hour and a half, huh?”
“It’s a tired old tale: drowsiness leads to caffeine which, in turn, leads to urination.” Jesus, Herman, you need sleep. As he rubbed his jaw, a redhead emerged from the police car and made her way towards Herman, purpose driving her heels.
“Ms. Marsh, I presume?” He held out a hand which was brushed aside in favor of a hug. Herman gave a sheepish look to Rosewood, who cut her eyes. As he patted the woman on the back, Herman noticed that she was shivering.
“Thank you, Mr. Ingram. Thank you for what you’ve done.” He responded by downplaying his role and saying that he had only been following his instincts, and offered for her to come inside. She hesitated. “Can we speak privately?” Herman nodded slowly as he looked to Rosewood. She shrugged, pulling him aside as Amanda reached the front porch.
“If anything seems off, call me, and remember that you have a babysitter outside at all times.”
“Five and a half feet; 120 pounds. I think I’ll be okay.”
“Just be mindful.” She took a few steps toward her cruiser before turning back to Herman. “I’ve seen women smaller than her take down stronger men than you.”
A smirk crossed Herman’s lips. “Was that concern wrapped around an insult?” He joined Amanda at the door, inviting her in and leading her to his office. He noticed that she shrank within herself, fidgeting with her glasses; they were oversized frames, the kind that had been so pervasive in the eighties. “Can I get you some water? Bourbon? Perhaps a cigarette or a Twinkie?”
She took a seat, looking up at Herman through the gap between the top of her glasses and her brow. “No, thank you.” She stammered a few times before removing her glasses and rubbing her eyes.
Herman took a seat next to her, extending a hand towards her shoulder before deciding against it. “What brings you to my sprawling estate? My world-famous wit?”
“What do you know about these ongoing events?” Her eyes never left her hands.
“What events are you talking about?” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, holding it up. “Do you mind?”
“Please don’t be coy, Mr. Ingram. I have much admiration for you given what those bastards did to my mother and my father.”
“Your mother had cancer, didn’t she? Ovarian?”
Amanda raised her face to Herman, elevating an eyebrow, the green in her eyes magnified by a film of tears. Something dark lurked deep below the sorrow and, while Herman was unable to place it, a shudder ran through him. “I went back five generations and do you know how many cases of cancer I found? One: my mother.”
“That’s certainly compelling, but what does it prove?”
She reached calmly into her handbag, producing a folder and sliding it to Herman. “That’s a contract, tendered to my father one month before my mother’s diagnosis. He turned it down.”
As he flipped through the documents, Herman saw that the offer bore the signature of the late Timothy Hanford. He dropped the papers onto the desk, feeling a sudden urge to wash his hands. “Still, it’s pretty thin.”
“And the courts would likely agree with you.” Amanda told Herman that three men had been found shot to death 150 miles from a QNI facility in New Mexico. The local medical examiner had almost completed an autopsy on one of the men before stepping out for dinner. When he returned, the bodies were gone. “Look in the other side of that folder, third page in.”
Herman followed her instructions and found a coroner’s report. “How did you get this?”
“I’m fairly resourceful. What do you notice?”
“Tumors. His body was riddled with tumors.”
“In his brain, liver, prostate, throat, and spine. They tested blood and tissue samples as well. What do you suppose they found?”
Herman winced as a dull ache began to strengthen in his neck. “A strange, metallic substance? Any chance something similar was found in your mother?”
Amanda’s eyes fell to the floor, searching for a lost trinket. “I don’t know. Her body was cremated without consultation. Daddy was devastated.”
“He had no idea did he? Probably confronted someone only to be told there was some mixup, right?” Amanda slowly raised her head, her eyes showing all the whites. Herman stretched his neck. “Let’s just say I’ve heard a case like that before.”
“How did that turn out?”
“Led the survivor to become a contract killer. I wouldn’t worry, you’re much more
well-adjusted, better fashion sense too.”
She played off the odd compliment and moved to the crux of her findings. “I think that they used the cancer treatments that my father developed to implant this material. It was all a dry run for something bigger, and that’s why they pushed so hard to recruit him.”
“And they lied to him, leading him to believe he was advancing his research towards a possible cure while actually using it for something that causes cancer. Jesus Christ.”
The pair spent the next two hours discussing what they had learned about the project that had claimed the life of Amanda’s father and many others. Thanks to Herman’s public presence, she was aware of most of what he had uncovered. Nursing a bruised ego, his mind went into overdrive when she revealed that much of her research pointed squarely at one man: Gregory Schultz.
The evening’s conversation had slowed by the time Amanda placed the back of her hand against her mouth, barely stifling a yawn. “I should get an Uber.”
“Do you feel like you’re being followed? Have you seen anything, had a gut instinct?”
“I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I should, shouldn’t I?”
Herman tilted his head. “Prying into secrets like these isn’t usually good form for a long life. I don’t want to sound like a creep.”
“But?”
“I have a guest room, assuming you don’t mind stacks of boxes keeping you company. I tend to stay up here, so downstairs is all yours.”
“That’s a kind offer, Mr. Ingram.”
“There’s also a rugged deputy parked outside at all hours.”
“You sound smitten.”
“No, I promise a total lack of ulterior motives.”
“I meant the deputy. Besides, I already have a room.” She reached out, lightly grazing Herman’s shoulder. “Thank you, for the offer and for your help. I’ll be in touch soon.” Her hand lingered and, as his eyes moved away from it, she leaned in and kissed him. The hand moved from his shoulder to his face, settling briefly before she pulled away. “I’m sorry.”