The Witness Series Bundle

by Rebecca Forster

  ***

  "Holy crap," Morgan barked into his phone.

  "What? What?" Eugene screamed.

  "He took a dive. He took a dive. Holy shit, Genie. Gotta go."

  "Is he dead?" Eugene screamed some more, but Morgan broke the connection.

  How in the hell was he supposed to know if the guy was dead? He was dialing for emergency services and ordering an ambulance in case he wasn't. People were looking out windows – not that there had been any noise – people in this neighborhood knew when stuff like this went down. Morgan kept his eyes sharp on everything as he talked especially on the kid rushing down the street. Then he saw the person hanging out the window where Ian Francis had stood not two seconds ago.

  Holy hell, what a mess.

  ***

  Josie realized what was happening too late. There was nothing she could have done to stop him and nothing she could do to save him. She reached the open doors seconds after his head broke open on the sidewalk. She was horrified. Stupefied. A man had taken his life and the way he had taken it defied reason. He had not cried out in despair. He had not made demands. He had not threatened to kill himself. He had just done it. He had given no reason for the kiss, no reason to hold her, no reason to leave her. He had not raised his arms as if he thought he could fly but crossed them as if he were simply finished.

  But he hadn't accomplished a damn thing. Josie still didn't know where Hannah was; she still didn't understand the things he had given her or the things she had found. He could have waited just a minute more, an hour, a day. She would have sat with him, walked with him, coaxed and cajoled the answers out of him. Was it her fault he couldn't wait? Had she intimidated him? Violated him? Disappointed him?

  Had she?

  Josie grabbed the railing. Her knees wobbled. She sank to the floor, her face thrust against the ironwork as she gulped in the cold air. Still, her stomach heaved and hurt. It didn't matter why any of this had happened; it mattered that it had. It didn't matter what information this man possessed; it was gone. Josie heard a car door slam and the sound of hard shoes running from down the street. A man was coming from the left but someone else was coming from the right. Bundled in a car coat, wearing jeans, and gloves and a hat, was a slight girl. She got to the body first and threw herself over it. Stunned, Josie pulled herself up and peered through the dark, hardly believing what she was seeing.

  "Hey!" she called. "Hey!"

  Down below the person clutching Ian Francis looked up and Josie saw the face of a young girl, a young woman. Her features were obscured by the dark and her pain; Josie's vision was obscured by shock and wishful thinking.

  "Hannah?" Josie murmured, and then she screamed: "Hannah!"

  The girl's head snapped toward the fat man running toward her as if she thought he had called her out. She swooped down and put her face next to the dead man's and in the next instant she was running away, gone into the dark, taking with her the one thing Josie wanted: information. That girl knew what Ian Francis knew.

  Josie turned to run for the door. She didn't make it seven steps much less seven flights of stairs before her legs gave out again. She fell hard across the end of the bed and slid onto the floor.

  "Damn!"

  Hope was severed and faith was next on the chopping block. Josie had no hope of finding Hannah without Ian Francis and her faith in his promise wavered. But there was one thing left and that was determination. Josie had plastic bags of white stuff, a lock of hair, and the almost indecipherable notes written in an insane hand on old paper. She had the memory of his face as he searched hers, his touch, his kiss, and his whispered endearment:

  "My sweet girl."

  Still shaken, Josie turned toward the bed, dragged the cheap suitcase down, and ripped off the tags. Her pockets were getting full. She staggered to her feet just as the sirens sounded in the distance. She stumbled down the stairs and by the time she walked through the front door of the Robert Lee Hotel Eugene Weller's government issue car was there.

  ***

  Eugene was close enough to see what was happening and far enough away that no one would notice him.

  An ambulance had arrived in record time. Paramedics rushed out to assist the man on the sidewalk. When it was clear that no assistance was needed, the body was covered with a sheet to await the medical examiner's van.

  As if not to waste a good call, Josie Bates had been coaxed into the back of the ambulance where a young paramedic knelt down, took her blood pressure, and waved his finger in front of her face. He spoke to her for a long while, stepped down, and let Morgan in. Morgan talked to her another good long while. His stomach hung over his pants and his cuffs were pulled up so far Eugene could see that he didn't have the sense to wear black socks with black shoes. Josie Bates on the other hand still looked as chic as she had at the hearing. Every now and again she punctuated what she was saying by stabbing the air or slicing through it to make her point. Eugene couldn't wait to hear what her point might be. He would get the report the next day but at least now he had seen for himself that there was nothing to worry about.

  Eugene started his car just as the medical examiner's van arrived. He made a U-turn as they were taking out the stretcher. He looked in his rearview mirror once more and saw them cart the body away. He stepped on the gas, working out in his mind exactly what he was going to say to Ambrose Patriota. More importantly he imagined what Ambrose might say to him. Whatever it was, Eugene knew he would sleep well that night. He always did when a day wrapped itself up so nicely and put itself away.

  Still, just to be sure, he made one more call despite the fact that it was too late for anyone to be in the office of public information. The woman he was calling was excellent. She would pick it up first thing in the a.m. and put the wheels in motion.

  "It's Eugene," he said, not bothering with a last name. "Contact every media outlet that covered Patriota's hearing today. I want all pictures of Josie Bates culled from their archives. Push the other witnesses. They were more interesting. Also, any mention of – or pictures of – the man who disrupted the last few minutes of the hearing need to go. Any questions, call me."

  He signed off and, as he did so, saw the clock. It was late but he would still make it for the better part of the meeting.

  As he drove, a smile came slowly to his face as he thought about Morgan. Perhaps he had been too hard on the man. Perhaps Morgan wasn't mocking him, but admiring him when he coined that nickname. After all, he was a bit of a genie. Ambrose Patriota's wish was his command. Sometimes, Ambrose didn't even have to make a wish for Eugene to grant it.

  Magic.

  CHAPTER 8

  "I'll come get you, Jo. I can catch the next plane." – Archer

  "Don't come. I'll make my flight. I'm at the airport now." – Josie

  "Call me when you're on the ground. You have carry on, right?"- Archer

  "Yes." – Josie

  "We'll leave Max with Faye. I'll have her cover your stuff at the office for the next few days. Just take it easy when you get back." – Archer

  "No. I need to work. And I want to see, Max. I want to see you. Do you think that girl was Hannah?" – Josie

  "No, Jo. She wouldn't have left you." – Archer

  "She did once." – Josie

  "She didn't have a choice then. Get some sleep on the plane."– Archer

  "It could have been Hannah." – Josie

  "I don't think so." – Archer

  "But he said. . ." – Josie

  "Don't cry, babe." – Archer

  "I'm not. I'm not." – Josie

  Josie put her phone away, finished her drink, and sat staring at all the things she had collected that night. She didn't know how long she sat like that or what prompted her to snap out of it. At some point she realized there was not going to be an epiphany sitting in a now closed bar at Dulles in a stupor. Josie did the only thing she could think to do: she dug in her purse for the tags she'd taken off the suitca
se in Ian Francis' room, shoved away from the table, hitched her bag, and took them to the first United Airlines counter she came to.

  "Excuse me. Could you tell me where this flight originated?" She passed the luggage tags across the counter. The woman in the uniform started typing. A minute later, she had the information Josie wanted.

  "Really," Josie muttered. Then she said: "Can you book me through from LAX?"

  "When would you like that?" The woman asked.

  "What's the first one going out tomorrow?"

  "It leaves at seven in the morning. You won't have much time between flights."

  "It doesn't matter." Josie handed the woman her credit card. When she was done, Josie dialed Archer again.

  "I need you to meet me at the airport with a few things," Josie said.

  "Sure. What's up?"

  "I'm going to Hawaii."

  ***

  "Ambrose?"

  Lydia Patriota opened the door of the den smoothly, making her presence known with that one perfectly modulated word and a hint of extraordinary perfume. Although she called to her husband, the other men in the room immediately acknowledged her with admiring looks. She rewarded them with a quick and winning smile.

  Lydia Patriota was a lovely woman many years the senator's junior but blessed with a grace and carriage that belied her youth. She was the second Ms. Patriota, the first having passed on some fifteen years earlier leaving behind Ambrose and two children who were now grown, successful, and above reproach. Of Lydia's many charms, the fact that the second Mrs. Patriota did not want her own children despite being of childbearing age was high on Ambrose's list of things he liked about her. He had no desire to be the butt of jokes about his virility, nor did he wish to leave a child orphaned should life not bless him with immortality, neither did he have time to spend with a little one. That he and Lydia loved one another as perfect, powerful, pretty people can was just icing on the cake. He had no doubt that, at his passing, she would be a most lovely widow and that she would truly mourn him. Luckily, she would not be wearing weeds anytime soon.

  "Is there anything else you gentlemen need for the evening?" Lydia asked.

  "Thank you, dear, we're fine." Ambrose answered for the four men in the living room.

  "I'll be going upstairs then," she said. "Don't keep my husband up too late. And Woodrow, I don't care who you are, honey, don't smoke in the house. Standing next to an open window does not draw the smoke out on a night like this. You've only succeeded in making the room chilly and stinky."

  With that, she left the men to their confab and went to her bedroom thinking how interesting it would be when the stairs she climbed were those in the White House. Behind her, the men chuckled their appreciation. There was something quite nice about a beautiful woman who wasn't afraid to slap their wrists. Ambrose, as Lydia's husband, took great delight in their delight. For Lydia, after all, belonged to him.

  Then Ambrose's eyes fell on Eugene. The boy – for that was how he always thought of Eugene Weller – had not enjoyed Lydia's interruption. Pity. Eugene would do well to hook his horse to a woman. At least then he would have someone to concentrate on besides Ambrose and somewhere to release his nervous energy. Tonight he seemed even more preoccupied than usual and his intensity was wearing. Perhaps it was because he had come late to the meeting; his normally unflappable demeanor had been disturbed by the breach in his scheduling. Annoyed, Ambrose finished his drink, and set aside the glass, missing the marble coaster and landing it hard on the fine wood.

  "Better watch it, Ambrose. Lydia is going to have your head tomorrow if she sees a water ring on that wood," Jerry laughed.

  "Lydia's displeasure is a thing to be feared, Jerry," Ambrose agreed as Eugene swooped toward the glass.

  Ambrose waved him away and rectified the situation himself. His impatience with the boy was starting to feel like the pangs of old age, a speculation he would keep to himself. Age was going to be an issue in the coming election, and it was up to Ambrose and his team to minimize it. His next thought was that his response to Eugene was something else altogether. It might be the itch of familiarity; the feeling a man who has risen to a certain status gets when he looks at the wife who had been his rock but has become his millstone. Perhaps his disappointment was simply a reflection of his belief that the greatest sin was to be reactive. The world was filled with Eugenes waiting to clear up messes and when they finally got the chance, their actions were out of proportion to the need. Case in point, the simple act of misplacing a glass required only that it be put onto the coaster. There was no need for Eugene to lunge for it as if he were saving Ambrose from an assassin's bullet.

  Ambrose wiped the watermark slowly as he considered that small men with myopic vision populated the world. His observation was not an arrogant one; it was objective. The three men in this room – four if one counted Eugene, which no one did in this context – were different. They were Ambrose Patriota's peers of a sort. If not visionaries, they were powerful men of patience who could accomplish things quietly and effectively.

  Woodrow Calister, Chairman of the Armed Services committee, was by far the most like-minded in this very private caucus. He understood the global implication of Ambrose's ambitions. He was a patriot at heart and possessed a marvelously analytical mind. He believed all things were possible; he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the things he wanted were probable.

  Jerry Norn, a member of the subcommittee on Intelligence was a close second on Ambrose's list of those he admired. What Jerry lacked in patriotism – for he was an opportunist by nature – he more than made up for in enjoying the challenge of keeping the wheels turning. He truly believed that there was no better governing or economic system than that of the United States.

  Mark Hyashi, a Senator of Japanese/American decent, had joined them only a few months ago after more than a year of careful investigation on the part of the other three senators. He sat on the Homeland and Government Affairs committee. Such an appointment was coveted and that the seat went to a freshman senator was a testament to Mark's intelligence and passion. Hyashi's insight into the ability of the Japanese political social and military culture to mesh and create a complete and selfless consciousness provided Ambrose a counsel that was invaluable.

  Mark drew parallels between the Japanese people willing to die in the service of their god-emperor and the more contemporary mindset of terrorists. If only, he had been heard to say, there was a pill that people could take to clear their minds of prejudice. There would be no more warlords, no more religious fervor, and no ideological pressures. People would act for the common good. Ambrose agreed but argued that such a pill would be a moral challenge for scientists and ethicists. Woodrow pointed out it would be better than a wet dream for the military. Jerry added economists to the list. The only thing scientists and ethicists would agree upon is that government had no business in people's brains; military men and economists, on the other hand, believed that's exactly where government belonged. Ambrose knew that neither camp had it right. Such power needed oversight and only those who ran the government, the military, and the economy could provide it and those people were the politicians: the right politicians, naturally.

  "Now that I've been scolded, too, gentlemen, shall we get back to it?" Ambrose directed. "Eugene, if you would."

  "Of course, Senator."

  Eugene raised the remote and pointed it at the huge television behind a frame of carved mahogany. The familiar TED logo came up on the screen and faded in favor of a young Asian woman speaking to a casually dressed man wearing a tightly fit headpiece that looked like the interior strapping of a bicycle helmet.

  The senators knew every word of her presentation by heart so the sound was muted. Still, they were glued to the set as the woman typed on the computer keyboard. The camera cut to the computer screen revealing a white circle inside an orange square. The woman stepped back, the man focused on the orange cube, and seconds later that cube filled th
e screen. In the next instant the man made the cube shiver and retreat just by thinking it so. The senators had seen him do this four times that night and still they reacted with anticipation and then excitement.

  "There. Did you see it? A millisecond and that orange thing was gone. Vanished." Jerry fairly bounced on the sofa cushion and then threw himself back, clapping his hands as he kept his eyes on the screen. "Can you imagine what could be done with that technology? Medicine is one thing, but I bet those two never thought of defense and intelligence applications. With the discipline our troops have, you take a battalion and get them all thinking on one target. Boom. Done. The enemy is thought out of existence."

  "It didn't disappear completely." Woodrow, arms resting on his knees, narrowed his eyes at the paused image. He was not as impulsive as his colleague but he was impressed. "I'll grant you it was damn close. This could usher in a whole new generation of warfare."

  "Or peace," Ambrose reminded them.

  "You're all reaching," Mark Hyashi interjected. "That man wasn't manipulating a solid object. We're a long way from medical or military relevance without that."

  "I wasn't serious," Jerry snorted. "If this could be applied that way, I'd be the first to invest. We've never even considered that any of these people are close to physical manipulation. What do you think about it, Ambrose?"

  "I think we're fighting wars with drones and robots. Soon everyone else will be, too." Ambrose said. "If our people could interfere with our enemies' software programs, drone controls, perhaps even the minds of the operators, we would change the landscape forever. Engaging in war would be futile."

  "Speaking of our enemies – or even some of our friends – they'll have this as soon as we do if not sooner. They'll steal it or pay for it and they'll have us over a barrel," Woodrow noted. "We'd do the same if they had anything close to workable."