Smythe glared at the agent. “I believe I said no. You really can’t force me into witness protection, nor can you force me to move or relocate.”
At that moment, time seemed to pause. She returned to the memory of the gangly brown teenage girl stopped by police for simply walking alone in her own neighborhood. She felt her stomach chill. Her arms began to tremble. A memory had come to mind—old television footage of African Americans marching peacefully in the street, knocked off their feet by water cannons and beaten by the very same police officers who swore an oath to protect and serve. In the same instant, she found herself thinking about her grandmother’s account of the vicious Long Walk to Bosque Redondo. During that time, the indigenous people of North America were forced to move to New Mexico and leave their ancestral lands, a brutal and often fatal journey.
Smythe remembered peering up at her grandmother. Something about the name Bosque Redondo wet the inside of her grandmother’s eyes.
“Grandmother, don’t cry.”
“It is alright,” her grandmother said as she held an old photograph in her hands. “I must never forget the sacrifice, and neither should you.”
“What was the Long Walk to Bosque Redondo?”
“A brutal 400-mile walk from our ancestral land. The ancestors—they were not prepared for such a journey, were not even told where they were going or how long it would take. They were starved or killed because they could not keep up. Our pregnant women would often go into labor along the trail. Our families were forced to leave them behind, but as they moved forward, they would hear gunshots in the distance behind them.”
In a large measure, the memory bolstered Smythe’s courage and she stood her ground.
“No. I will not go. I’ve made huge strides in my life. Significant changes, even. Now you want me to upend my new career, my life… I’m just not going to do it!”
“You can follow me if you’d like, but I’m not going to scurry away and hide in your security program. If you need anything else, call me. In the meantime, I’ve got things to do.”
Smythe rose from her chair. Hands trembling, she clutched her messenger bag and left the conference room. The agent shook her head and followed behind her. Smythe moved quickly through an open row of desks, glancing around the office as she made her escape.
Typical office structure. It could be almost any company I’ve worked for. Rigid and unmoving. Toe the company line. All the tin soldiers lined in a row. I could have just driven away, pretending as if I saw nothing. But I got involved. I called the police. Against my better judgement, I called the police. I told them what I witnessed, but like my mom always said, no good deed goes unpunished! God, I’m just now pulling it together. Why? Why now!
Smythe glared straight ahead as she approached the double-sided glass doors and exited the office. She glanced to her right and then her left. She approached a bank of elevators at the far end of the hallway, barreling forward once a door opened and nearly knocking a woman over in the process.
Dressed in a trimmed white shirt and matching dark blue jacket and slacks, the stranger’s lean musculature typically would have outmatched Smythe’s frame. However, the speed with which Smythe entered the elevator left the stranger unprepared for such a swift entry and momentarily unbalanced her. Smythe eyed the stranger and simply regarded her as just another FBI agent. She lowered her head and stepped aside to allow the woman to pass.
The stranger regarded Smythe for a moment and smiled. “Hard day?”
“Yes. That about sums it up. I’m sorry, my mistake,” Smythe mumbled.
Letting out a slow breath before pressing the lobby button, she lifted her gaze, catching sight of the woman again. The stranger looked back in Smythe’s direction and offered her another smile before striding into the office Smythe just left.
I Might Regret This,
But I’ll Do It
AGENT CAROLE ROBERTS STOOD NEAR HER DEPARTMENT’S door—fuming. It wasn’t just Smythe’s lack of cooperation that annoyed her. After all, she was just trying to help the witness. It was Smythe’s naivety of her own making that caused this predicament.
She held her breath momentarily as she stared out at her department. In the open space, quiet conversation of colleagues mingled with the sound of telephones ringing, copy machines thumping, and agents standing near fax machines earnestly discussing their cases. The combination of sounds created a cacophony of frenetic energy. Yet, the only sound Carole heard were the last words spoken to her from Smythe: “I’ll figure it out myself.”
Who does she think she’s talking to? It’s just crazy she was sitting in a parking lot at that hour of the morning. She had to have known better.
She backed away from the main entrance of the department and opened a file folder containing an investigative summary of Smythe. She thumbed through its contents again, hoping to glean some insight into the defiant behavior Smythe just demonstrated. After a moment, she snapped it shut, the contents offering her little information.
Why so damn obstinate? And foolhardy! She’s going to get herself killed!
Her thoughts of damnation were interrupted as the door swung open. She turned her head just in time to watch her old friend enter.
Standing at five-foot-eight inches tall with long auburn hair, olive skin, sculpted eyebrows, and slightly chiseled facial features, Artemis Fione Leone strode into the office and surveyed it. Those on the way to the door smiled and nodded in her direction. With an air of smugness, she returned their smile, her gray-brown eyes softening.
“Artemis! You’re early. How are you?”
“Carole. Serious. Why do you do this? For years I’ve gone by Artie. You know damn well I’m not a fan of my birth name, yet you persist.”
“Not my problem. Take it up with your parents.”
“Greek mythology—my mother’s obsession, remember?”
A smirk flashed across Carole’s face. “I remember—paintings and statues everywhere. But I must admit, it gives me such pleasure to call you by your given name. Its meaning rather suits you. Besides, Artemis, it’s payback for standing me up last week. Want to explain why?” Carole lifted her hand. “Wait, hold your inevitable comeback. Let me grab my bag.”
Artie bit her tongue as she watched her friend walk away. Trying to gain the upper hand again, are we?
Artie continued to look about the office. The noise of the department began to quiet. Agents leaned in and whispered to one another, glancing every now and again in Artie’s direction. Amused at the thought that they were whispering about her, she stood watching the agents watch her. God, they look so young. She looked past them all to the back of the office. From a distance, she could see Carole approaching.
With her purse and file in hand, Carole walked past Artie to the office entrance.
“Where do you want to go for lunch?” Artie asked.
“How about Rodolfo’s? It’s a block away, and it’s off the beaten path so we can hide out from everyone in the office.”
“Rodolfo’s it is, then.”
While strolling to the elevator, Carole resumed their conversation. “Well, what’s your excuse?”
“To your point of standing you up, Carole, I was wrapping up an assignment. It took longer than I wanted, and it proved to be a bit unpredictable. I had no opportunity to reach out to you.”
“Don’t lie to me, Artie. Your very involved mother called—she’s worried about you. She told me you dropped Davey off for the summer.”
The pair entered the elevator, and Carole pressed the lobby button. Artie stared straight ahead, her hands crossed in front of her and released an audible breath. “No, it wasn’t for the summer, Carole. It was for the year. He wanted to spend some time getting to know his father.”
“Well, she was worried. You ok?”
“As usual, leave it to my mother to call you. You know, we’re adults now. You could have just told her to stay out of my business.”
“Umm-hmm, you know that isn’t going to
happen. It’s been a lifetime with our mothers meddling in our lives; it’s what they do. Besides, it has its perks. I haven’t seen or spoken to you for what now, three months? How else am I going to know what’s going on in your life?”
“My life is not that complicated. I work and take care of Davey. That’s it.”
“Well, the last time I saw you, you had broken up with that new love of yours, and you were pretty much a wreck. I thought she was going to be the one for you.”
“I was not a wreck! Davey is my priority, and she wasn’t a good fit for him. She checked off a lot of important boxes, except one. You know my rule.”
“I know, I know, anyone—”
“Anyone coming into my life must make room for him. That one didn’t—end of story.”
“So, now Davey is gone?”
“Oh, for God’s sake! It’s only for the year. He just wanted a male influence in his life. He’s seven! It’s good for him. I agreed to reach out to his father, and the rest is history.”
“So that leaves you free, so to speak. Perhaps meet someone new?”
“What are you? Twelve? No, it doesn’t leave me free. I’ll pick up a few cases to keep me occupied. My last client used up more of my resources than anticipated, and my bank account is looking a bit thin for my liking.”
Carole glanced at her friend, dropped the questioning, and remained quiet for the moment. After exiting the elevator, the pair headed out the lobby doors toward a tiny Italian bistro three blocks south of the FBI building. A crisp wind began to kick up, causing both women to gather their jacket collars tightly around the nape of their necks. With their heads down, they navigated the government districts’ uneven sidewalk—the result of the city’s utilities expansion project.
Neither one spoke until they arrived at the bistro. Once seated, Artie looked around and smiled. The family-owned restaurant had a quiet, kitschy, old-world vibe with woody décor, simple chairs, muted lighting, and an open kitchen. She opened the menu and scanned the offerings. Carbonara, risotto, osso buco, and of course, lasagne—all dishes she grew up with. She inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of oregano, alloro, and timo.
After ordering their meals, Carole glanced around the bistro.
“So, Artie. Given your bank account, I may have a case for you.”
“You don’t pay well.”
“No, but someone who is keenly interested in this case does.”
Artie narrowed her eyes, accepting a folder Carole held before her. She scanned the report while Carole briefed her on the earlier conversation with Smythe. After a few minutes, Artie surmised her own involvement had significant limitations.
“I’d rather protect someone who wants to be protected, Carole.”
“Let me finish.”
Carole’s stomach began to churn, but she pressed into the conversation, methodically describing the case and investigation to her childhood friend and former colleague. Although department policy dictated no FBI agent should knowingly share information about a case without prior consent, she reasoned this case was important, not only to her career, but for the city overall. Drug money, prostitution, human trafficking—it was all on the rise, and so was the violence. Smythe’s testimony would be key in striking a blow to the operation.
While Carole also understood the consequences to her otherwise stellar career if her Director discovered she leaked confidential information, she also knew resources were strained. Too much was happening in the city too fast. Local law enforcement could not keep up, and Carole’s unit lacked the available personnel to keep Smythe under surveillance and protected 24 hours a day. She also had a hunch that other agencies would not protect Smythe to the extent she would need protecting, and of course, now Smythe had refused relocation. However, with some friendly persuasion, her old friend Artie had the flexibility and the resources.
“Sounds intriguing, but it taps even my teams. I’ve got eight, and two are out on assignment. You’re asking for 24-hour protection for months, if not a full year. That’s a hefty bill, Carole. Are you sure you can cover it?”
“Your benefactor has the necessary resources. I’m not at liberty to share who it is, but suffice it to say the resources are there.”
“I’m not one to take a case without knowing who is behind the purse strings.”
“If you trust me, Artie, trust that the benefactor is legitimate. Besides, I think this case is tied to something else. I won’t share with you what I know, at least not yet, but I think the ramifications go beyond just the city.”
Artie regarded Carole for a moment.
“You said she doesn’t want to go into witness protection. Did she say why?”
“From what I gather, her life has changed. I know she recently resigned a corporate position and started her own business, so there is a financial consideration. She’s also enrolled in some sort of year-long coaching program tied to her new business. Her father died recently, leaving her mother alone. Beyond that, I don’t know. There is something about her, though. Something she may be hiding. I can feel it. All I can say is she seems hell-bent to make life my miserable.”
Carole paused, her eyes meeting those of Artie’s. “Does that sound a bit familiar?”
“Don’t start with me. If it weren’t for my hell-bentness, I wouldn’t have started my own private security firm, and you wouldn’t be talking to me about this case. If you ask me, she sounds like a woman who knows what she wants and is going after it, secrets and all.”
“Even if it costs her her life, and me—this case.”
Artie eyed Carole with suspicion.
“You up for it?”
Artie looked around the bistro, running her fingers through her hair. She calculated the number of teams it would take to protect Smythe. She would need to get involved and surveil the client to learn the rhythm of her days. Artie reasoned Smythe’s recent resignation was a plus, as infiltrating an organization to keep a protective eye on a client was difficult at best.
She tapped her middle finger on the table, weighing the cost. After a minute or so, she nodded, determining the fee would not only cover the expenses of her teams, but her agency’s balance sheet would also profit from this unknown benefactor. She pulled out a pocket notebook and wrote down a figure, sliding the scratches over to Carole.
“Yeah. I may regret it, but I’ll take her on.”
The Moment That
Changed Everything
SMYTHE SAT IN THE NEARLY EMPTY PARKING GARAGE OF THE FBI building. She unclenched her teeth and relaxed her balled fist. Still unnerved by her conversation with the FBI agent, she replayed the agent’s words again over and over again. “We don’t want to alarm you…”
She slowly shook her head. Have I fallen asleep? Especially to this? Am I so attached to what my future may bring that I am not living in this moment? Had I not quit my job, I wouldn’t be in this current predicament.
“Not helpful,” she muttered aloud.
For Smythe, it now seemed a lifetime ago that she had relocated to the valley. During a particularly nasty economic downturn throughout the country, the government agency Smythe worked for incrementally made cuts to its staff. As the agency’s Training and Development Manager, Smythe found herself laid off during the agency’s third pass at reducing its spending. Her new unemployment status, coupled with the illness of her father, contributed to her decision to pack her bags and leave the comfort of her golden state and head for the state of sagebrush and silver where her parents lived.
With her mouth turned down and her eyes squinting in concentration, she continued to review the past six years since arriving in the valley. She reminded herself she had felt out of alignment—a more profound sense of belonging to something else.
With an extensive training background, she quickly found work as a corporate trainer in the tech industry. Highly educated, respected in her field of work, and making decent money, people who knew her thought she lived an enviable life. She was an influencer to corporate
executives and traveled extensively. Yet, over time, she found she was not as open-hearted, vulnerable, or creative as she once had been. Instead, her generous spirit shriveled as she watched colleagues and managers alike seemingly bathe in greed, pettiness, and fear.
Dissatisfied with her employer, she began to ask herself what she truly wanted in her life. What did it look like? What type of work did she want to engage in that she would find fulfilling?
She held the questions lightly in her heart and eventually found herself applying to a year-long dual speaking and coaching program with one of her long-time mentors, a man considered to be one of America’s best success coaches. After she was accepted into the program, she felt the shackles of heartache release, and she formulated a plan. She would combine her mentor’s teaching with her background in coaching and training to develop her own company to help others aim higher and obtain the outcomes they sought in any area of their lives.
Smythe lifted her eyes and spoke aloud. “Those questions set everything in motion. Everything. The resignation of my job, my new field of study…”
Since following her soul’s calling, she had returned to where she was. More thoughtful, generous, kind-hearted, and loving. Open heartedness had taken a front seat in her life, and she was at peace once again.
Yet, this murder mess… she thought, threatened to askew her homecoming.
Smythe glanced at her watch. It was much too late to visit the baker. His shop would be closed by the time she arrived. Instead, she chose to return home and study, perhaps find some nugget of information to spur her along.
What she found was a return to meditation. After settling onto her dining room chair, she opened her laptop. She watched a video that described the value of consistency in meditation, and thankfully, it offered several guided practices.
That day, and throughout her week, Smythe spent more time in meditation, a process she called here-now. She did not spend hours in meditation—who has time for that, she mused during her first foray—but found fifteen to thirty minutes was just enough time to ground her. She also discovered that when she peered too far into the future, she triggered anxiety. The process of meditation, however, counteracted those feelings. While the trial was never far from her thoughts, the elegant art of here-now allowed her to regain her sense of equanimity, making room for peace to quietly settle into the fabric of her days.
No Place to Hide Page 4