“Stand back!” the black-suited man yelled out at Gaia. He was incredibly fast—as he ducked, his upper body surged forward and he drove his flattened hand upward into Rossiter’s chin. Blood spurted from the bigger man’s mouth and nose. Rossiter stumbled backward, hitting the desk. The computer monitor slid to the floor and exploded with a bright flash of light, filling the air with an acrid electrical smell.
Rossiter’s eyes rolled up. He slipped back against the desk again, swayed, and toppled to the floor.
Gaia stood next to the man in the black suit, looking down at James Rossiter. She firmly resisted the urge to kick him in the face. As angry as she was, she knew that a great deal of her anger was shame. This man should never have gotten the better of her.
“What did you touch?”
“What?” Gaia looked over, surprised at the question.
Beside her, the man in the black suit had already gotten his breath back. He was adjusting his clothing, tucking his drab tie back into his jacket. His eyes avoided hers—he was gazing around at his immediate surroundings, peering keenly at the floor, the worktable, the desk, the cot. Gaia suddenly realized he was looking for his own fingerprints.
“What did you touch?” the man repeated. He had a guttural, deep voice that was not unpleasant—he sounded almost theatrical, like a seasoned actor. His unshaven face had Nordic features and high cheekbones. His weather-beaten eyes were blue. As the man reached to wipe off the edge of the table, he finally looked at Gaia. “Did you touch anything? Come on, think fast—we’ve got to move.”
Gaia was so surprised that she didn’t stop to question what the man was saying. “I didn’t touch anything,” she told him. “You’re interfering with a crime scene, sir.”
The man laughed humorlessly. “Tell me about it,” he said, smirking. He had finished with the table—he was looking down at Rossiter now, trying to gauge his condition. “It’s just a minor concussion—he’ll wake up soon. Let’s go.”
“Wait,” Gaia said firmly. “Mister, I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing, but I’m an agent with the Federal B—”
“Stop,” the man said sharply. Now he was looking right at her. “We don’t have time. I saw the door upstairs—you broke in.” The man pointed at the bulky body on the floor, which was already starting to move. “I’m sure he called the cops before he came downstairs. You want to spend the rest of the day in a jail cell?”
Gaia looked back at the stranger. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t start arguing because everything the man said was true.
“No,” Gaia told him. “No, I don’t want that.”
“Then let’s not hang around here,” the man said quickly. He was brushing the dust from his suit as he stepped over James
Rossiter’s legs and moved toward the basement door. “Come on—we’ve got about five minutes before the cops get here.”
“Listen, you want to tell me who you—”
“Come on,” the man snapped over his shoulder impatiently. “We’ll take your car. Believe me, you don’t want to stay here.”
And that was the truth. Gaia stepped over to retrieve her gun and then vaulted forward, following the man in the black suit out of the basement. Behind her James Rossiter moaned and stirred on his cold basement floor, his mouth and nose still dripping blood, lit in crazy light patterns as the fluorescent light kept swinging overhead. Gaia took one last look and turned to run up the stairs.
MYSTERIOUSLY SAVED
Sirens, Gaia thought. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed like she could hear sirens in the street behind them. She was back in her car, ignoring the fading pain in her back as she gripped the wheel, trying to pay attention to the traffic. Her Walther was back in its shoulder holster, pressing uncomfortably against her rib cage.
A lot of good that did, she thought.
“You hear that?” the man in the passenger seat said. He was twisted around, peering behind them through the Altima’s rear window. “I told you. He called 911, gave an intruder alert, and then surprised you. The station house is ten blocks away—the cops’ arrival time is less than five minutes once the call is—”
“Wait a second,” Gaia said tersely, flicking her hair away from her cheekbone as she turned her eyes on him. She was in no mood for this. “Just shut up for one second and tell me who you are and what this—”
“Shhh,” the man said, raising a finger. He was squinting, seeming to concentrate on listening to the sirens. Gaia gazed forward along the car’s hood, navigating the sparsely populated, seedy residential streets. “Follow the signs to the interstate. Don’t speed—drive normally.”
Well, that’s obvious, Gaia thought ruefully. That’s what you do when you’re fleeing a crime scene—especially when you’re the criminals.
Somehow everything had gone hopelessly wrong, and her pursuit of her missing friend had turned into—what? What was happening now? In the space of a half hour she had become a fugitive from the police, guilty of breaking and entering. Not to mention how close she’d come to being strangled for it—before being mysteriously saved.
The sirens slowed and stopped behind them. The man seemed to visibly relax.
“Good,” he said, turning back around and facing forward. Gaia saw that he’d injured his hand during the fight—he was nursing it with his fingers. “We’ve got plenty of time now. They’ll question him, question the diner patrons, question the waitress—it’s going to be at least an hour before anyone remembers your car. By then we’ll be miles away.” He glanced over at her. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Gaia glanced at the man and saw that he was smiling. The smile crinkled his eyes agreeably—in another context, she realized, he was a man whom a woman would be happy to meet in a hotel bar for a blind date—if you took away the stubble, the bruises, and the black suit that had seen better days. Up close, the resemblance to her father was more striking, yet more elusive. It wasn’t that he looked like her father, exactly. He was a decade too young to begin with, despite the graying hair. It was the way he moved, the way he carried himself—and the precise, lethal way that he had fought. Gaia realized that he probably could have killed Rossiter if he wanted to.
“Thank you,” Gaia said.
The man nodded crisply and then inclined his head, indicating that she should turn her attention back to the highway. Gaia did, just in time—a Plymouth SUV honked angrily as she darted out of its path.
They were moving toward the interstate highway, according to the signs. Now Gaia could see telephone lines, billboards, fastfood restaurants, four-lane traffic, and other signs of civilization. Gaia was far from calm. Her driving was still shaky, and behind her, she kept thinking, was a cot with two black hairs and the only clue she’d found about her missing friend and partner.
“Start talking,” Gaia said. “Now.”
“My name is Winston Marsh,” the man told her. “I’m a private investigator. I’d like you to just try to stay calm and listen to what I have to say. Will you do that?”
“No promises.”
Marsh frowned, pushing the corners of his mouth down. He didn’t look unpleased. “Fair enough. Like I said, I’m a private detective, but I’m also ex-FBI.”
“FBI—” Gaia’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And you happened to be sitting in the, what, the Moscone Diner this afternoon? Come on—that’s ridiculous.”
“Of course it’s ridiculous.” Marsh’s voice was resonant, even if he sounded like he’d smoked his fair share of cigarettes. The blue-green light from the windshield’s antiglare strip shone on his prominent cheekbones. “I guess you’ve been with the bureau long enough to know there’s no such thing as coincidence.”
“What—you were tracking me?” Gaia squinted skeptically. “And I never saw you?”
“Impossible, right?” Marsh smirked, still gazing forward at the road like a rifleman lining up a complicated shot. He turned his head and squinted his blue eyes at her. “Nobody ever gets the jump on you, despit
e what I’ve seen after knowing you five minutes. No, I’m not tracking you. This isn’t about you, Gaia. It’s about your friend. It’s about Catherine Sanders.”
Gaia slammed the brakes. The tires screeched as the car lurched to a halt. Luckily she was in the rightmost lane and there was nobody immediately behind her, although a woman in a bright red Honda honked very angrily as she sped past.
Gaia had turned around in her seat and was glaring at Marsh. Maddeningly, he didn’t look remotely frightened or intimidated. He was leaning casually in the car seat, a smile playing over his face as he gazed calmly back at her. He hadn’t even flinched.
And why should he? Gaia thought ruefully. He’s seen me get my gun taken away and my ass kicked—it’s not like I seem dangerous or anything.
“Keep driving,” Marsh said lightly, gesturing forward with one hand. “We’ve got some time now—I know a place nearby where we can talk. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because it’s logical,” Marsh said levelly, staring calmly out at the Baltimore street. “Right now you need help. It’s obvious. The fact is, you’re confused and tired and you don’t know what to do next.
All true, Gaia thought.
“Look, I know you’re concerned about time,” Marsh told her earnestly. “But think it through: no matter what kind of field agent you are, you must realize that the smart move right now is to listen to what I have to say.”
Gaia thought about it. She couldn’t come up with a counter-argument.
“I’m a detective, all right?” Marsh added earnestly. Up close, across the front seat of the car, Gaia could see the deepening wrinkles around his sharp blue eyes. “I find missing people—it’s what I do. It’s why I was hired to find Catherine. We’re doing the same thing, Gaia. Right now you need my help—and I need yours.”
“You were hired to find her?”
“Want to hear more?” Marsh pointed out the windshield again. “Start driving.”
Will
Only a day since she vanished.
Only a day since the last time I saw Gaia Moore—saw her perfect blue eyes and heard her charming New York voice. New York by way of California, and if that isn’t a fine vintage of wine, I don’t know what is.
Our crack team of investigators—the unstoppable foursome of Taylor, Lau, Sanders, and Moore—has dwindled down to two. Just two depressed FBI trainees who, in the course of just a few days, have gone from getting envious stares and high fives over their Hogan’s Alley victory (not to mention a lot of ribbing in the men’s dorm about being partnered with the two prettiest women in Quantico) to this.
Now in the cafeteria, on the athletics field, I can see them looking at us. Carefully tearing their eyes away and then whispering when they think Kim and I can’t hear.
That’s them, the other trainees are saying. They’re the ones.
… missing partners …
… some kind of manhunt …
… serial killers …
I can’t pretend that I mind being talked about. Otherwise my life would be close to unbearable. I mean, I’m no stranger to getting a lot of attention. Growing up back in South Carolina, that was the story from the very beginning. On the football field, on the track field, in the classroom. Smiling at girls and watching them react. Getting them to smile back even if they thought they didn’t want to. Getting them to glance at me a second or third time, even though they knew better.
But this is different. Now we’ve got notoriety. And not the good kind, either. The kind that can taint you for a long time. I can picture myself getting out of here and going back home—getting a posting in an FBI field office south of the Mason-Dixon line—and still getting those stares and hearing the whispers.
… failed at an important case …
… something wrong with his Quantico team …
… undisciplined, irregular …
… don’t want to partner with him …
No, thank you. That’s not what I signed up for. I came to Quantico for one reason only—to be the best damn FBI trainee anyone had ever seen. Easy, right? Just be better than everyone else. I’ve been doing that since I was ten, when Uncle Casper took me to that ball game and I saw my first major-league home run and realized what excellence was. I figure there’s no point to doing anything if you’re not going to force yourself to be the best.
Of course a stunning blond girl—from New York City, no less—turned all that around the first day. What do you do when someone’s just better than you at everything—and to make matters worse, she’s really cute?
Fall in love with her, I guess. At least, that was my brilliant solution.
And now she’s gone.
Kim’s sad, too. I can see it in his eyes—the way he looks tired all the time—like something’s weighing him down. Things have gone bad here. And I don’t know what to do about it. For Kim, Catherine was almost like a sister; I think he misses her more than Gaia. Misses Catherine’s jokes, and her easy manner, and her brilliance.
Catherine may be gone. She may be—she may be dead. Kim knows it, of course. I think Gaia knew that, too. But if anyone can find her, can bring her home, Gaia’s got a chance at it. I just can’t think of anything more difficult for one girl alone to do. I mean, it’s a big world to search.
Why did Gaia have to do what she did? Why be so stubborn as to go for the big heroic gesture—the solitary quest or whatever you want to call it? Does Gaia just need to be alone, like she keeps suggesting? Is it in her nature?
I don’t think so. If I could have her back in front of me for just another couple of minutes, that’s what I would tell her. You don’t need to be alone, Miss Moore—that’s a fact. And maybe someday you’ll believe it. I might even have been the one to convince you, if we hadn’t left things the way we did. That’s probably all my fault, too.
Anyway, I hope she’s all right.
I hope they both are.
NEARLY INSULTING
Kim Lau didn’t enjoy being summoned to the chief’s office.
The problem was, you couldn’t predict anything. Kim had a knack for figuring out what was on people’s minds—for reading their gestures and their faces. But when you got a text message telling you to come to the top floor of the Quantico admin building and report to Special Agent Brian Malloy’s office, there was no way to interpret it. There was nothing to go on—just words on a cell phone screen, telling you what to do.
The Virginia sun was bright and warm as Kim walked across the FBI quadrangle toward the gleaming glass facade of admin. Kim was beginning to perspire in the heat, but not too much. It was under control.
He could see the tall figure of Will Taylor over by the dorm building, walking to meet him. So Will had gotten the summons, too. That wasn’t surprising. He could tell that they were being watched. These days they always were. It was part of their Quantico lives now. In the bomb-training and antiterrorism classrooms, on the shooting range, in the cafeteria—everyone was looking at them. Kim was incredibly sensitive to it. It appalled him how badly people hid what they were doing. It was nearly insulting every time. Nearly, but not quite.
Sometimes Kim had an irrational impulse to stand up suddenly in the cafeteria, spread his arms, and yell out to the assembled trainees with their plastic trays and their vitamin supplements and their protein shakes and turkey sandwiches. It’s all true, folks! he imagined yelling. We got partnered up with the weird girl—the one from New York. We almost got expelled, and then she won the game for us … and she and the girl with the glasses got promoted to full agents and assigned to a real serial killer hunt—except it went nowhere, and now one of them is missing and the other one’s AWOL and nobody knows what to do with us. It’s all true, so stare all you want! Stare at the black sheep and be glad it’s not you.
He never did it, of course. He never even came close. But he could tell from Will Taylor’s chiseled face that Will was reading his mind. Don’t give them the s
atisfaction. Just smile.
“Hey,” Will said absently.
“Hey. Where were you?”
“Working out. You?”
“Library,” Kim said as they approached the security desk—Will flashed his entry badge, got waved through, and waited for Kim to show his trainee pass to the guard and sign in. Even the Quantico security personnel were watching them, Kim realized ruefully. “You know what this is about?”
“No idea.”
On the way up in the elevator, fingering the temporary pass the guard had handed over, Kim realized again how nervous he was. Security in this building was as tight as it got anywhere on the Quantico base, and the extra procedures with passes and electric gates didn’t exactly have a calming effect. And Brian Malloy was a very mysterious man. Decades in the FBI had made him into the human equivalent of one of those tribal masks you saw in anthropological museums—the carved wooden masks designed to remind worshipers of the immobile, untouchable faces of the gods.
“Anything happening with the case?” Kim asked Will.
“What?” Will glanced over, the harsh elevator lighting shining in his blond crew cut. He seemed puzzled—and then he laughed derisively. Clearly the lollipop case was the furthest thing from Will’s mind. “Don’t even ask me about that.”
“Nothing, huh?”
Will shook his head. “Permanently stuck at square one.”
He misses her, Kim realized sadly. He doesn’t want me to see it, but he really, really misses her.
The elevator door bonged softly and slid open, and Kim and Will unconsciously straightened their backs as they strode out into the carpeted hallway, past the enormous Federal Bureau of Investigation seal on the wall, heading toward the chief’s office. Kim remembered when all four of them had been summoned here, early one morning not long ago, nursing hangovers as they tried to explain how they’d ended up in a knock-down, drag-out brawl at the townies’ local bar. Kim could remember it like it was yesterday—but at the same time, the image of the four of them moving down this corridor together seemed like it came from impossibly long ago and far away.
Agent Out Page 4