Reed

by Mariska Hutchence

  I walk the lot back to the front door, thinking about the day. Things had gone well. A little trouble popped up, but it had been quickly dealt with. The cut was good for both of us. The glass doors slide open automatically as I approach, and Marisela is just thanking the tired looking desk clerk.

  “All set, Mr. Calhoun.” She says, grinning and tossing me a keycard.

  “I don’t need to sign anything?” I ask, juggling it for a second before finally being able to pocket it.

  “What, you don’t think I can handle it?” She asks. It takes me a moment to realize that she’s fucking with me. The elevator is already open, so we step inside and Marisela punches the button for the sixth floor. The first indication I have that Marisela has more ‘celebration’ in mind is the fading voice of the desk clerk right as the doors are closing.

  “Have a nice night, Mrs. Calhoun.”

  The doors whisk completely shut and the second indication hits me square in the face; more exactly, square on the lips.

  Suddenly, instead of a good night’s sleep, I’ve got a five-foot-nine hot-tempered Latina pressing me up against the side wall of the elevator. She’s convincing me, though it’s not really a difficult task. Less than two minutes later, I’m on my back on the hotel comforter and she’s pulling my belt out through the loops, those chocolate brown eyes staring down at me. “Let’s just keep this to ourselves, Cali.”

  I’m about to respond when she presses one of her fingertips to my lips.

  ___

  “Okay, Reed. You’re going to have to get your ass up and walk. I’m not carrying you and I don’t think Liam’s too keen on it, either.”

  A good fifteen seconds pass before I’m fully coherent and the clash between the reality I’m confronted with and the dream is just too stark to make it any easier. Groggily, I roll a little, managing to sit up. Out the door, I recognize the surroundings. One of the safe locations we use. Nice little place in a quiet neighborhood. I consider making a ruckus, but all that will buy me is a gag for the night, since the person I’m here to meet probably won’t be bothered to come until morning.

  Scooting out of the van as best I can, I finally get to my feet. “You got this?” Liam’s in the driver’s seat now, leaning out the window. Marisela slams the doors and does a double-tap with her palm on one of them. I watch it fade into the night before feeling her hand on my wrists, leading me up the front walk.

  “It’s good to see you again, Marisela.” I say, but mostly that’s because of the dream I was just having. It’s been a bit because we’ve been working different gigs for a while.

  “Fuck you, Reed.” She says, nudging me along a little more briskly.

  “That’s my girl.” I say. I’m not quite as afraid of her as I used to be. That’s what she gets for showing me the soft underbelly, and she knows it.

  “I’m not your girl.” It’s a simple statement, but I don’t think it came out as tough as she wanted to make it. It’s a testament to us keeping our thing on the down-low that they’re even letting her be alone with me, considering the circumstances.

  She flips on the light and bolts the door. “Down to the room for you, Reed.” She says. “I don’t think I have to tell you where it is.”

  Alone, I decide it’s worth it to make my play. “This is me, Marisela.” I say softly. She looks at me, her face hard and cold. “Be the one.”

  “The one what?” She asks, planting both her feet in that way I remember. Sort of a petulant, defiant stance; it always made me think of the little girl I can only imagine she once was.

  “The one that actually listens to what I have to say.”

  “Reed, I…”

  “That’s all I’m asking.”

  I can see the weights balancing in her eyes as she makes her decision. We had something; something beyond sex, and I’m hoping it’s still there.

  “I guess one more beer couldn’t hurt…for old time’s sake.” There’s no smile, but I’m more than willing to take what I can get. I turn and flash the wrist restraints to her.

  “No way, Reed.” She says. “All you’re asking is for me to listen, right?”

  “Yeah, they’re just killing me.”

  “You always were a whiner.” She says, this time the smile is right on the edge.

  “And you were always a bitch.” I say, my own smile widening.

  She pulls a pocket knife out of the front of her jeans and in a minute, I’m free. “Don’t think I can’t take you, Reed.” She says, and I know she means it. It doesn’t trouble my masculinity at all to accept the fact that if I was in good form, I might hobble out after a scrap with her. Rubbing my arms, I accept that the odds wouldn’t be good.

  “Shit, I don’t think I could even get the aim right.” I say, flexing my arms in front of me, simply happy for the change in position. I catch her eyes on them as I stretch. Seemingly coming back to her senses, she heads to the kitchen and returns with two longneck bottles.

  Marisela sits down on the couch that my body has already sunk into and twists off the cap, setting it on the coffee table. “So, now’s your opportunity.”

  I crack open my own and damn, it tastes good after the last couple of days I’ve had. That first draw clears over half the bottle and I set it down; ready to talk. Three more beers later and I’m wrapping it up. She hasn’t said a damn word and her expression has hardly changed at all. I wait for a few seconds, but the tension in the air is killing me.

  “Well?” I say, noting the frustration in my own voice.

  “Fuck, Cali.” She finally says after tossing back the last of her beer. “That’s a sweet story.”

  Shit.

  She sits there for what seems like an eternity, staring off the back of the couch, looking at me before she finally speaks again.

  “You know what sucks the most, Reed?” She asks. I know it’s just a rhetorical question, but I’m pretty much talked out anyway. Telling the story has actually gotten me choked up and I’m trying to hide it.

  “What sucks the most is that I actually believe it.”

  A wash of relief floods over me. Maybe if she believes it, she can convince the man I’m dreading to see in the morning.

  “We had good times, but nothing like that.” She said, and I can hear a little regret in her voice. “Fuck.”

  “Maybe if you could…” I start, but she’s already standing up, stretching those long beautiful legs, headed over to the desk at the side of the room. I know the place, and I know what that means. It’s not good.

  “Marisela.” I say, but she’s not stopping.

  Turning around, she hefts the big revolver in her left hand and I’m already resigned to what’s going to happen. She crosses the short distance between, getting between me and the coffee table. I’m just considering the best way to attack when she lifts her foot and knocks the little table over with a crunch and the clattering of empty beer bottles.

  “You know, Reed.” She says, the corner of her lip twitching just a little. I remember all the times I kissed those lips and the time we spent together, talking and laughing. My exhausted body seems to have given up all hope of taking her. “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”

  I have a quick flash to a lazy bedroom conversation with her about just how stupid that saying usually sounds. She rolls the revolver expertly in her palm and reaches out her arm, the grip extended to me. “You know you’re going to have to make this look good.”

  Chapter Seven

  Monday Night – Des

  I’ve got the hotel for the week, but I have no idea if I’m going to stay that long. I check the forum, but there’s nothing there. It was just a hunch, but I had been hoping that he would try to contact me that way. I’m trying not to let myself believe that what he said was just a lie; but it’s there, nonetheless. I feel a little helpless, mostly because I don’t have any information. That generally bugs me more than anything else; not having the facts that I need to make decisions. I’ve made one of the biggest decisi
ons in my life, but as of yet, I don’t have anything to show for it.

  The only way to resolve that is to try. I hadn’t been planning on it, but the curiosity has gotten the best of me; that and the boredom. I enable the VPN on my Bureau laptop and watch the screen as it negotiates the tunnel.

  VPN Connected!

  I launch the case management application through the shortcut on the desktop and type in my credentials. Even though I’m allegedly taking time off, I don’t think there will be any issues. The majority of us are workaholics, so I feel comfortable that it won’t arouse suspicions.

  Clicking on the Reed Calhoun case, it starts loading and I’m happy that they haven’t completely closed me out; even though that may have been an oversight on their part since I’ve technically been removed from the case according to Cisneros.

  Spending the time reading through the case documents and the agent notes is the closest thing to normalcy that I’ve felt since this whole thing started. I do love the work; that’s apparent. I review every detail; annotated photos of items entered into physical evidence, profiles of the other potential members of the syndicate; even the interview transcripts. The last take up the majority of my time.

  CALHOUN: Yes. I just left my house after that.

  SA DAWKINS: Leaving her free to leave?

  CALHOUN: Absolutely. I didn’t want her there in the first place.

  The exchange bothers me as I read it. I know that’s how he felt originally, though. As I read further along the transcript, I can definitely see where he’s trying to protect me from any reproach.

  SA DAWKINS: And why did you do that?

  CALHOUN: What did you want me to do? Fucking kill her?

  SA DAWKINS: Were you under orders to release her?

  CALHOUN: (Laughs) Fuck no! I’m screwed either way.

  SA DAWKINS: We’re just wondering why you would have made that sort of decision yourself.

  CALHOUN: Because I’m not a killer. You know as well as I do what road she was going to go down.

  SA DAWKINS: Did you ever get orders or clearance to kill her?

  CALHOUN: No.

  Reed could have easily have told them what he told me, but he chose not to, even under the circumstances he was in. It helps renew my confidence in my choices.

  SA DAWKINS: To be able to help you out, you’re going to have to help us out, Calhoun.

  SA DAWKINS: How do you communicate with DUKE? (See profile 555609.1)

  The name is in bold, with a hyperlink. I make a mental note to read through the profile later.

  CALHOUN: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  There’s more to the exchange, but Reed doesn’t give up any information. Knowing it’s a big-time violation of regulations, I take a picture of the screen with my phone, making sure to get the relevant parts. Restrictions on the laptop itself would have prohibited it, hence the use of my personal device.

  I shift my attention to the ‘Duke’ profile, but it’s unclear whether that is a name brought in through intel or just a placeholder the Agent-in-Charge is using for the leader of the syndicate. There’s relatively little information, just some links to other profiles that I jot down for later reference. I take another screenshot, just in case. I could be locked out of the system any day, though I actually doubt it. Ever since the Terry’s Network Administrator position had been outsourced to the third-party IT service things like that have been slipping through the cracks.

  Clicking over to Reed’s profile, I finally catch something that makes my heart sink. Even if he understood my message, they’ve assigned his passport to the no-fly list. There’s no way he could make his way down there by the First of July without flying, even though I know from his stories that he can be incredibly resourceful.

  “Shit.” The single spoken word breaks the silence in the room, well, other than the constant hum of the underpowered air conditioner set against the wall with the window. I step over and look out onto the lights of the city. He’s out there somewhere, I think, then remind myself that I’m acting like the sappy heroine in a romantic story and draw the curtains shut.

  “Life isn’t all happily ever after, Des.” I say aloud. The AIC is the only person in the field office, other than Cisneros himself, that would have the authorization to take Reed’s name off the no-fly list. Me not even being on the case limits even my ability to talk to either of them about it, but what the hell would I say anyway?

  My phone rattles on the little work desk and turns my attention back in that direction. Clark. I let it go to voicemail. The guilty feeling from this afternoon comes back, but for once I’m going to stick to my guns. Things just didn’t work out with him. That’s not his fault, but I’m sick of letting guilt and hard feelings dictate my choices. I try to justify things by telling myself that it was a favor to him, but my mind keeps reminding myself that I haven’t actually broken up with him yet. I do owe him that, but it’s certainly not something I’m good at. In the past, my go-to escape from a bad relationship was to just sort of fade away, but that doesn’t really work when you’re living with someone, does it?

  I pick up the phone, staring at the missed-call reminder, considering. His name is just sitting there and I realize that he didn’t leave a voicemail. I press the icon to return the call, hoping that I’ll be lucky enough to get his message. Even though I know how shitty it is, I’m in the position where it’s a viable option.

  “Des. Where are you?”

  Shit. In a couple weeks full of crap, I had been hoping for one turn of good luck.

  “I can’t tell you that, Clark. You know that. I was just calling to tell you that I was sorry about our fight earlier.”

  There’s a pause on the line. “I’m sorry too, Des. Things have been hard lately. I know you feel that as much as I do.”

  That’s an understatement, but I don’t voice it. I’m trying to build up my nerve to truly let him go when he continues.

  “I love you, Des. I just want you to be safe.”

  The words take all the wind out of my sails. Not because they touch my heart, but because they do nothing but intensify the guilt that is eating me up. Generally, once my heart is out, it’s out, and it seems to be the case now. I try to start.

  “Clark…”

  I can’t help the hesitation, and it hangs to long.

  “Look, Des, I…” He offers, but I finally find the resolve.

  “Clark, I’m sorry.” I say. “I think I was hasty to move in. I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of commitment.”

  Was that good enough? My brain is telling me no. The air conditioner starts to rattle, grating on my already frayed nerves.

  “Clark?” I ask.

  “What are you saying, Des?” Clark finally responds. I can hear that edge in his voice; the one that shows up when he’s masking his emotions. The time is now and I really don’t have any other options; I brace myself for it.

  “It’s just not working out, Clark. I’m sorry.”

  Better? My brain concedes that it’s probably good enough, even though it really wanted me to say something closer to the fact that I didn’t want to see him again. The heart agrees that it was a little wishy-washy, but good enough considering the circumstances.

  “Can’t we talk, Des?” He asks. “Face to face?”

  Why I didn’t see that question coming is beyond me, but I’m far better with dealing with data and figures than with emotions. “I don’t want to talk about it, Clark.” I say.

  There’s silence on the other end for a moment; just enough time for me to start working out how I’m going to end the conversation. If I’m already breaking up with the guy over the phone, why is it so hard to just say goodbye?

  “Des…”

  “I’m sorry Clark. I need to go.” I say. I pull the phone away from my ear, but I can’t even hear the normal inaudible buzz that comes when the other side is still talking. The disconnect button is there, and I stare at it for a long second before my thumb comes down on it
.

  “Well, Des.” I say to myself. “That’ll probably do it. You’ve just given up a decent guy for someone you barely know and don’t even have a picture of.”

  The words float in the air as I prepare to crawl into bed for the night and I start reviewing everything to do with Reed Calhoun from that first day in the basement.

  Chapter Eight

  Des

  I can see my quads straining with the effort as I make one more go of it. The pipe is loose and I think there’s a chance that I might be able get it this time. The block walls of the basement are cold on my feet as I use them as leverage. My captor has been out for long enough that I’m not worried he was just stepping out for a moment, but I have no idea how long I have until he returns. The cuffs are killing me as they dig into my wrists with the strain, and I start pumping my knees little by little, watching the joint of the pipe wiggle disappointingly little from my efforts. Debris is falling into my eyes from the ceiling, so I screw them shut. My body knows what it needs to do, so I don’t need the reminder of how little I’m accomplishing anyway. The house is old and I’m hoping the plumbing system is a creaky as the basement stairs.

  I can feel that it’s giving more and more with each straining push and release, but I haven’t let the little rush of optimism in. Not quite yet. Even if I’m successful in this, I still probably have a locked basement door to get through. I have some training on that, but depending on what kind of locks he’s put on it, it could still slow me down significantly, since there isn’t much of a landing at the top to stage my assault.

  “Little more, little more.” I keep saying, like a mantra to keep me focused through the effort I’m putting into it. I’m not feeling any more debris, so I look up, disappointed to find that my most recent work is actually having more effect at the top joint. Even if I can break that, it won’t be easy to shimmy up and free myself. “Don’t sweat it, Des. Keep going. Little more, little more.”