Still, they did manage to get the girl’s name from a very reluctant and apparently myopic gentleman in a tank top, but only due to Brighton’s intimidating glare.
“Scumbags,” Brighton said later, as they examined Iris’s apartment. “They hate to answer the questions, because, you know, we — the government — oppress them, but they’re too chickenshit not to answer. So they tell some truth, and get vague, and get stupid and add some bullshit and act like they don’t give a damn, so that they could tell themselves later that they fucked over the law.”
The man only had the girl’s first name, but that was more than their database was able to provide. The image from surveillance cameras matched nothing. Her apartment revealed little of its primary tenant, though they did find signs of recent occupancy by more than one person, and the crime scene techs got plenty of prints. The landlord did not have a copy of the lease. It was a pay monthly arrangement. In his books, such as they were, she was listed as Iris Smith. He assured them the name was provided by her.
The Honda was registered to a fellow named Emmanuel. The registration had not been renewed in four years, which coincided with the time Emmanuel had died of old age. The car was left for the tenants’ use. The keys hung on a nail in the kitchen.
They returned to the office at around three. The surveillance team was combing the morning’s footage for the right Civic. The picture of Lloyd Freud was transmitted to various law enforcement agencies and media outlets.
“I want every goddamn cop in the world to have those within the hour,” Brighton barked into the microphone, as though the person on the other end of the line was insolent enough to dispute his directives. Glancing at Brome, he shook his head in apparent exasperation.
Government agencies, including the Bureau, had the policy of not installing cameras in their phones. Protection, or something. Probably recommended by the Psycho Department, as well. When you got a call from the government, instead of a face, which not everyone possessed as impeccable and intimidating as Brighton, an emotionless, imposing seal glared at you from the screen. In this case, though, the face would work just fine.
“Good, so do it.” Brighton dropped the call and switched to the receptionist. “Give me Washington.”
While Brighton reported his progress to The Man, Brome browsed through the electronic file on the desk. It was a standard FBI dossier on Lloyd Freud. Brighton had passed it to him absently, busy as he was.
Flipping the pages, Brome skimmed through the multitude of data concerning the marshal’s life, starting from high school graduation. The information was sorted in chronological order within subdivisions: “Photos,” “Medical,” including copies of various lab test results and prescriptions, “Employment,” complete with resumes and pay stubs, “Personality,” and so on and so forth. Nothing unusual about it, either. “Family.” Parents deceased. Married one Linda Augusta Heisenstutter at the Church of the Illustrious Saints in Galena, Illinois on October the 23rd, 2015. Divorced, February 3rd, 2021. No children. No friends.
The next page referenced Freud’s military service. It caught Brome’s eye. Marine Corps. Two tours of duty in the Middle East. Honorably discharged… Two tours of duty, Brome read again, moving on after a brief pause. A note at the bottom of the page stood out.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (look “Medical,” pages M12-13.)
“Anything interesting?” Brighton inquired without interest.
“The guy has no present,” Brome replied, scrolling back to medical history.
“Probably no future, either.”
“Here’s something,” Brome said. “PTSD patient since 2020.”
“Post Traumatic Stress?”
“Two tours of duty in the Middle East some fifteen years ago.”
“I heard those were the worst days. The Guard?”
“The Marines.”
“Hmm. Got his doctor in there?”
“Yeah, I’m going to give him a call.”
“All right. I’ll check on the car meanwhile.”
They made their calls. Once both were done, Brighton magnanimously invited Brome to go first.
“Dr. Pareides has not heard from Lloyd Freud in over three years. The last time they spoke was after Freud has missed two appointments in a row and the doctor called him. Freud told him he moved and transferred to a physician closer to his new home. If a name was mentioned, Dr. Pareides does not remember it. He does recall asking where to forward Freud’s medical records. To which Freud said he would have the new doctor’s office contact him for those, but apparently it never happened, and Dr. Pareides has been too busy to follow up on it since then.”
“I don’t know what those nerds in Data get paid for these days,” Brighton said.
“Any word on the car?”
“They gave me an area that is about eighty percent certain to contain the vehicle. It’s going to take them about five hours to comb it, which will help, unless the car in garaged. If it is, then it’s all a waste of time.”
“We should get some more info on the new doctor and this girl, Iris. Even if we do find the car, chances are they won’t just park in front of wherever they’re hiding. It’s going to be abandoned far enough not to matter.”
“A dog might help,” Brighton said.
You’ll need a special kind of dog to follow a trail in this weather, Brome thought, watching raindrops splash and scatter across the window. But he said nothing, and even half-nodded, as though to say that anything was possible, if Brighton thought it so.
* * *
They arrived when twilight had already set in, but now they had to wait. The structure was too crowded. They watched as people and cars dispersed. When the area was sufficiently deserted, the pair appeared in the courtyard. Unhurried, they surveyed the two-story building and space around it. There were too many tracks — the crowd left heaps of ethereal waste — but it would not be long before they found the right one. Moving in opposite directions from each other, they began.
It took long. Too long. Pollution aside, someone had been trying to cover the tracks. Someone who knew that the tracks existed. Someone who knew the tracks would be sought.
Someone else may have paused, reevaluated the situation, consulted his superiors. But they didn’t send someone else. A Seeker — or dog, hound, as they were also called, though never in their presence — was no more capable of altering its course than a bullet shot out of a gun. They put the knowledge away for later, and continued the search. And eventually they had it. A curving strand of white, thin, almost faded. Had there not been a pair of them, or had their superiors sent someone else, the trail may have gone cold.
Bending sharply out of the gates, the white strand slithered into the west. Silently, tuning out the rest of the threads running in the same direction, the Seekers followed, dissipating in the shadows.
Chapter Eleven
Just as I had expected — and I had expected it only because of prolonged exposure to televised fiction — Dr. Young’s house appeared old and dilapidated from the outside. It was a two-story brick construction, with shuttered windows, lanterns on the porch and a box of a garage in the backyard. There were even a couple of mock tombstones on the front lawn, with a dirty hand protruding from beneath one of them. In a very conspiratorial way, the interior sparkled with neatness, functionality and occasional pieces of art, showing the owner’s substantial wealth, good taste and maybe insanity. The TV in the living room was as big as mine, could have been the same model, but he had done something to it, so that it did not turn on by itself when we entered.
That improvement was wasted, however. Dr. Young turned the thing on almost as soon as we sat down. Iris and I shared the longer part of the L-shaped, white, full-grain leather sofa. Dr. Young dropped into a workstation armchair and at once began to wallpaper the screen with info about The Union Station, The United Monorail, the Department of Transportation, Homeland Security and probably the Department of Kitchen Sinks, as well. It all looked ridic
ulous, but he really seemed to be putting an effort forth. Three odd hours passed. Somewhere in between, he sent Lloyd to the kitchen to make sandwiches. Lloyd returned in about ten minutes with half a dozen ham-on-ryes that were delicious, and we all ate, and Lloyd resumed hovering behind Dr. Young’s back, both of them mumbling occasionally. Also somewhere in between, I told Iris I was sorry that I got her in this mess.
“You didn’t get me in this mess,” she said patiently, closing her laptop. “The mess was there long before you came along.”
“Right, the world is not perfect. But I don’t think you had too much experience with murderers, police chases and kidnappings before I came along. At least I hope not.”
I chuckled.
“You don’t need to apologize for that. You didn’t do it.”
“Still, had you not decided to help me—”
“Luke,” she cut me off. “Are you trying to present me with a gift? Fine. Apology accepted.”
“It’s not a gift.”
“Then why do you insist on apologizing for something you believe to be my fault?”
“I… I just didn’t want to seem ungrateful…”
“That’s sweet, but if you don’t want to seem ungrateful, say ‘Thank you.’ Otherwise it may sound like you think I got you in this mess.”
“What? Ugh… I think we should start over.
“I run a couple of TV shows. What do you do?”
“I’m an extra.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Movies, TV. I’ve been a female cop on ‘Barlow and Warden,’ though you wouldn’t be able to tell. I’m leaning over the hood of a police car, with my ass to the camera, pointing a gun at a building.”
“Wow,” I said. “Huh. We haven’t, actually, met before, have we?”
She looked at me quizzically and giggled. “No, I don’t think so.”
“I just didn’t know with the pills how much I may have forgotten or didn’t pay attention to.”
“Yes, I’m a forgotten extra whom you seduced with promises of leading roles. I actually set up this whole thing to get my revenge. I am Lloyd’s employer.”
“Wait, didn’t that actually happen on ‘Barlow and Warden?’”
“I don’t know. I just saw that one episode that had my ass in it.”
“But no, what I meant was I could have forgotten being introduced to somebody. If I seduced you, I would remember. Pills or no pills.”
“Oh, thank you very much.”
“It’s not a gift!”
We talked more about the job of an extra and about catering and cash payments, and I asked her what school she went to, to which she replied that she went to Miskatonic in Arkham, which I’d never heard of, but didn’t let on, so as not to offend her. Then the conversation moved on to my school and I began telling her about my years at Northwestern and I think I must have chattered for two days straight.
At some point Dr. Young announced he was going to go “reconnoiter” the Union Station. I was enjoying the conversation too much, to pay too much attention to his nonsense. It seemed a long time since I’d spoken so easily and so much to a listener who wasn’t a part of my body. It was certainly my first normal conversation of the post-pills era. So Dr. Young departed, and Lloyd turned on the cartoons, and Iris and I just relaxed on the couch, facing each other, gesturing lazily, nodding and throwing our heads back to laugh. But then suddenly it was over. In response to a “Where are you from Iris?” Iris said they’d pulled her out of the water in seventeen.
“What?” I asked.
“San Diego,” she said. “I was six or seven, just floating around. Didn’t remember anything. They called me Iris because, you know, it contracted when they flashed the light on it.”
“Oh, it’s OK,” she hasted to add, mistaking my look. “I’m not upset about it or anything.”
“Is that a joke?”
Lloyd lowered the volume and turned towards us. Iris frowned.
“A joke? What are you talking about?”
“Everybody knows Luke Whales’s parents died in San Diego in seventeen.”
“What? I’m sorry but I didn’t.”
“I did,” said Lloyd.
“And if I did,” Iris added, “I would definitely not joke about it. Or about myself being an orphan pulled out of the water.”
I apologized, but the conversation died. We watched cartoons. I couldn’t stop thinking about that day when I left for Northwestern, driving cross-country all by myself, getting to the apartment and sleeping like twenty-four hours straight, then waking up and seeing the water on TV.
Eventually Dr. Young returned, and the insanity of the present which he brought back with him was preferable to the past. He also brought Chinese food, and we had dinner.
Iris volunteered to clean up. I volunteered to help. Lloyd and Dr. Young went back to mumbling together. Iris and I went back to cartoons. Some time later, Lloyd said, “Might just be better off putting him in the luggage. He’s not gonna try. And this probably won’t work even if he tries.”
“Unfortunately, you are correct. But the luggage idea might not be so bad, if it comes to that. Perhaps a coffin.”
“I’m right here,” I said.
“Oh, you would be very much alive, not to worry. And your part would be much simpler, which does seem like a better choice at this juncture. Unless, of course, we manage to somehow convince you of the truth overnight.”
“Speaking of nights,” said Lloyd. “I figure to be up most of it, what do you say I catch a few winks now?”
“I don’t mind, Mr. Freud. You know where the guest rooms are.”
“Wake me up, say, in three hours then?”
“Five.”
“Thanks, Doc. You want my gun?”
“No, thank you. I’m well-armed.”
“Just so you know,” I said. “You don’t need to be well-armed on my account. I decided not to run away. Tonight.”
Lloyd regarded me with a mother’s patience.
“Tell him something, Doc.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Make him understand.”
“Do you understand, Mr. Freud?”
“Make him believe, then.” When Dr. Young excluded himself by raising both hands, Lloyd sat down on the ottoman, turning to face me.
“All right. I’ll explain this again, because obviously you’re still a bit behind. Yesterday morning the plan was to set you up for murder. This may be hard to grasp, but try to. The plan had very little to do with you personally, as far as I knew, anyway. It was purely about “us” versus “them,” and you were their pawn my employer wanted to take off the board.
“As you know, everything went according to plan. I was well on the way to my retirement. That’s when my employer decided to inform me that you actually matter to him. That I’m supposed to protect you. Like I said earlier, I’m really not happy about that, and I’m not happy about the fact that I wasn’t told more before I shot O’Malley, but I’ll do my best, because that’s what I do. So get it through your head that you are not a prisoner here. My gun and Doc’s are not here to prevent your escape.”
“You pointed it at me back at the church.”
“You didn’t try to escape. You tried to call the cops on me. That’s different. Besides, it was only to frighten you. I wouldn’t actually shoot you.”
“So I can just get up and walk out that door?”
“Sure. But understand this. If my employer orders me to protect you, then it’s a good bet the police who would shoot you on sight for killing a federal employee are the least of your problems. Trust me. There’s nothing but death outside that door.”
We stared at each other. For a minute there was only murmur of the news. I got up from the couch, walked to the door and opened it. The warm inside air rushed by me, sucked into the night. The bright yellow ball of a streetlight was slashed with slanted, silent rain. No one else moved.
“If you don’t care, why are you telling me not to leave?�
��
“Cos I’ll have to follow and I’m tired and I’ll probably die too,” said Lloyd, rising once again to his feet.
“Would you close that door, Mr. Whales, please? It’s getting drafty.”
I did. Lloyd left the room. The stairway creaked under his weight.
“What about you?” I asked Iris, returning to my place on the sofa. “What would you do if I left?”
“I would go home.”
After that, the three of us watched the news.
…Two simultaneous explosions destroyed two buses in… taking lives of at least 32 people and injuring a hundred more, … police officials said earlier today. The timing of the bombings pointed to a coordinated attack. Investigators are waiting for one of the militant groups to accept responsibility…
…20 thousand US troops are returning safely from the Middle East. Their eighteen-months-long tour of duty began in April of last year. Watch the homecoming celebration special live tomorrow at 2…
…A heartwarming scene in the recently liberated town of … The citizens, mostly women and children, gather to greet and thank the Coalition troops. They bring wild flowers and caviar. “It’s days like these that remind us we’re doing the right thing here,” one soldier told us…
… Four hundred humpback dolphins mysteriously washed ashore yesterday on the northern coast of Zanzibar. Scientists don’t yet know what killed the dolphins, which live in the deep offshore waters. An early examination of the animals’ stomachs suggests that they either had not eaten in a long time or vomited very recently…
… NASA announced today that it shouldn’t take more than ten years to prepare the second mission to Mars. It will take about that long to process all the data we’ve gathered during the first one, anyway, a delighted senior official…
…a forty-nine-year-old babysitter confessed to killing the toddler he was watching. The man admitted to bludgeoning the girl with a hammer, then dismembering the body and hiding the remains in…
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