by Paul Snyder
Philip looked surprised. “You don’t need a gun.”
Philip knew nothing of the money behind her walk-in closet or her fear of going to prison for grand larceny. “From the fishing pole, I found the man who made my life a living hell. I needed the gun to protect me.”
Philip argued. “The FBI is protecting you.”
“Please just bury the gun. I’ll be right back for it.” She began the short walk back to Jennifer, musing over her situation. The loss of my Bugatti confused me. Grief from my parents and the police has turned my life upside down. This time, I will be strong. I will be decisive. I owe that to Andrew and the future of our family. When Meghan returned to the officers, she found Jennifer shaking her head in a fit of hysteria, laughing at the sky as though she were a dog, crazy with rabies, barking at the moon.
Jennifer raged. “You just won the lottery.”
The officer with the metal detector spoke in a low voice. “New priority.”
Jennifer yelled at the police officers, walking back to their cars. “Bring the metal detector back. I’ll scan her.”
“Even if you do scan her, we can’t bring her with us. We’ll have to do this later.”
Jennifer whispered. “Do yourself a favor. Put your gun back into the little room behind your walk-in closet where you found it in those toolboxes. And meet me at the police station at four o’clock.”
26
The police cruisers rolled down the street. Meghan reached down into the sand for the pistol Philip buried. “I’ve learned things from a fishing pole I found in your locker.” The Smith and Wesson felt heavy in her hand. She put the pistol inside her pants, in the strap next to her leg.
“Enlightenment without wisdom is like skill without experience.” She was troubled by the concern in Philip’s eyes. “Your attitude is good, but your approach is flawed.” Phillip crossed his arms and lowered his head to study her face. “You say you’ve learned, but at what cost to your parents, to yourself and Andrew?” Philip looked at her directly in the eyes. “There is no substitute for age, absolutely, no substitute for age. There are older, wiser, and more experienced killers than you.” Philip looked to a child screaming at the swings and then returned his gaze to hers. “They will kill you without a second thought.”
She faced her fear of death while surfing and reflected on how she loved surfing, even if it meant death from drowning or multiple shark attacks. There’s dignity, honor, even greatness to be found in the depths of a watery grave. But guns make me feel disgusting. And, in death, I refuse to leave a legacy vacant of human decency. I’m a good person. I never want to see or feel or hold a gun again, for as long as I live. “Goodbye, Philip. I’m going home.”
Against a backdrop of the Pacific Ocean stretched a long street lined with cars and houses, a neighborhood valued into the hundreds of millions. Andrew’s firm had an account of all the residential listings. Her home on the shoreline at the end of the street was the most expensive, gorgeous, magical, with stunning ocean views that left all who visited speechless.
It was her trophy beach house, and she couldn’t get there fast enough to put the gun back in her walk-in closet as she caught her first glimpse of a tall, attractive man wearing a grey suit. She sidestepped to her left and stopped between a red BMW and a brown Mercedes. Why am I cringing between two cars? I can’t be too careful.
She ran across crossed the street. While walking forward on the sidewalk, she avoided direct eye contact. He’s out for an ordinary walk on an ordinary day. Yes, the winds are a little crisp, chilly. The sky’s bluer than usual. He’s normal. Why can’t I calm down?
She walked forward on the sidewalk, mulling it over in her mind. He’s still staring at me. Oh… this is weird how his eyes never leave me alone. Now he’s crossed the street with that stupid spring in his step. What does he want?
As she approached him, her steps slowed. She darted off the sidewalk and into the street, where a blue Toyota Camry soared into her path. Oh… no! She stepped back as the car skidded sideways with a loud, irritating noise. A man rolled down his car window and shook his head, his face angled to see her. “Hey, lady.” She was stunned by the fury in his face. “You’re supposed to sleepwalk at night, not during the day.”
She shuffled back, finding the man with the grey suit inches from her. Wearing a wool suit with a well-cut, white shirt and gray tie, he looked down at her. “Sleepwalk at night.” A mischievous look came into his eyes. “Not during the day.” He threw back his head and let out a burst of laughter.
She chuckled and wondered why she felt at ease. He doesn’t buy his clothes at a department store, off the rack, like Jim Temple, nor does he have the look of a police officer like Davis. He’s more like a… a florist vendor, a good salesman who has cheap and beautiful flowers at the Los Angeles Flower Mart and always has a free gift for me. Her eyes froze on his tall, athletic body as he stood there, handsome with clear blue eyes. He’s in his late forties or early fifties. With sandy brown hair and a face bronzed by the sun, he smiled and introduced himself as Kevin Stevens. He’s a friend of the family.
He reached into his jacket and then flashed an ID card at her. “FBI. I have a few questions for you at our Huntington Beach field office.”
“The FBI was just at my house.” She had to put her gun back in her closet. “I have to go home first.”
His smile disappeared. “No, you’ll come with me now. You remodeled your home without a building permit.”
“Come on, Kevin Stevens, that’s a federal offense?” Meghan challenged him hard.
Concern settled in the pockets of his eyes. “Are you okay?”
Edgy and confused, she didn’t reply. I’ve been so out of line. “It’s been a hard day.”
He casually nodded, and she looked up to face him. “If you don’t mind me asking, you did remove the crown molding in your walk-in closet?”
She frowned. How’d he know that? “You’re right, I did.”
He broke into another smile, easing her suspicions. “The internet’s been down. All day, I have been a little in the weeds myself.”
She looked at him intently. “I was just on my computer. It’s working okay.”
He smothered a groan, and she stepped back. “The FBI uses a different protocol. Well, I mean, some of us, with higher-level clearances, our devices, their MAC addresses use private IPs, experimental, different from the public IPs you use for browsing and Email and whatnot. And, the private IPs that we use, you know, for security, are not working today.” Kevin asked. “You do want our intel safe from hackers?”
She was abruptly interested. “Yes, of course.”
He came close, looking down at her. “Our secure IPs, they’re not working. That’s why I was hoping you’d help at our Huntington Beach field office for a report due in Washington, D.C., by close of business.”
She knew it was going to sound strange, but she had to ask. “Do you have metal detectors?”
He blinked, his expression neutral. “No.”
“Fine, I’ll go with you.” She glanced at the long line of cars on Second Street. His face had a faraway, almost impersonal look as he motioned at a white sportscar. He invited her into a white Lamborghini.
"Please be careful. Our records indicate you like orange juice and buttermilk bars. I bought those for you in the cardboard container down on the floor mat.”
It was kind of him, and she slipped into the passenger seat, careful not to spill the orange juice. He closed her door, and as he sat in the driver’s seat, a large diamond cross dangled from a white gold chain around his neck. She froze with a fight or flight reflex, her eyes narrowing on a chrome Lamborghini logo on the black dashboard. Jim Temple said he could never afford a Lamborghini on an FBI salary. Who is this man? Is he really the FBI? “Andrew bought this same car for his employees.” She heard her voice, stifled and unnatural. “But the company car’s a different color. It’s black.”
“Yes, our records show that it’s totaled.” He
grabbed the diamond-studded cross with his left hand and then kissed it before looking into the rear-view mirror and driving off to Huntington Beach.
“Thank you for the orange juice and donuts.” She looked down at the floorboard. “I’m thirsty.”
She wanted to open the small orange juice. It would take the edge off her nerves, but questions about Kevin’s ostensive wealth flooded her mind. Could an FBI agent afford a Lamborghini? What about the fifteen thousand dollar, hand-tailored suit and the ten thousand dollar diamond cross necklace? With the shoes, he’s wearing thirty thousand dollars’ worth of clothing. What if he isn’t everything he said he is? What if he’s deceiving me? “I skipped lunch today to help with the children at the park.”
“I’m a certified FBI instructor in exercise and diet and lip-reading. You told the police that you wanted to go to the bathroom.” Kevin had a gentle voice, and his tone was apologetic. “It was a crime that she didn’t let you go.”
“They’re defunding the police.”
“When so much of your time is devoted to public service,” Kevin’s eyes were so gentle, “it’s easy to deprive yourself and get dehydrated and sick. You lose fluids, and moisture is drawn from your body. Life becomes less enjoyable, or even worse, you can get the flu.” Kevin’s voice halted mid-sentence. “You can begin to become tired and irritable and anti-social, which is contrary to public service. That police officer should have let you go to the bathroom and get something to drink. You’d be happier and friendlier, more pleasant.”
“You’re right.” She smiled at the thought of his lip-reading certifications. Did Kevin Stevens see Jennifer’s remark about putting the gun back in my walk-in closet? She looked down at the orange juice. Small drops of condensation formed on the lid. The juice was icy cold. I want a drink so bad. “I’m so thirsty.”
“You may eat and drink in the car.”
She pursed her lips at the thought. “Jim Temple said he could never afford a Lamborghini on an FBI salary.” Her mind raced with all the possible arguments. “How is it that you can afford hand-tailored suits, from England, I suppose.” Her opposition was polite. “And expensive cars and that beautiful diamond cross necklace.”
“Temple’s from Georgetown, right.”
“Yes.”
“I went to Yale.” Kevin’s countenance was immobile. “My parents were upset when I turned down a career with Bears Stearns in New York. My mother and father sentenced me to a lifetime in private equity banking. But I chose the FBI instead. Still, my parents spoil me.”
Kevin’s kind and educated, not a threat. The orange juice and donuts look good. I want to drink the juice so bad, but no... I can’t. I have enemies everywhere. But, after a long moment of silence, she found nothing wrong with him. She was irrational. He’s attractive and kind, and I trust him.
She drank the orange juice fast, then ate the donuts like a jittery bird, picking at little pieces, feeling anxious and guarded while bypassing cars on the highway. She relaxed, and after finishing the buttermilk bars, she felt better. They drove in silence on Bolsa Chica Boulevard. “You’re right.” She leaned forward, tilting her face toward him. “I needed to eat and drink something. Thank you for the snacks.”
He looked at the road intently. “No problems.”
After they arrived in Huntington Beach, an odd, piercing sound came to her ears, and cars seemed like they were on a strange television show, with bad reception, while the screen flashed on and off. Soon the flashing stopped, and Kevin was in a lighthearted mood as a languid feeling washed over her body. She felt drowsy.
She pursed her lips, wondering about a shaky feeling that crawled down her back. I can’t move. My stomach’s churning like crazy. Something is wrong with my legs. My legs are trembling bad. What’s this searing pain in my belly. Did Kevin poison me?
Gasping for air, she bent over in her seat. I love Andrew and Philip and my parents. Philip was right. It’s bad to go in search of old and wise killers. After her stomach cramped with more pain, she crumpled in her seat. Old and wise killers are the worst. Her head crashed into the passenger door window. “I’m getting sick.”
“You’ll get used to it.” He had a light tone of voice.
“You’re right.” She forced a smile through her pain. Philip tried to protect me. I’m yucky. She saw things moving around her, but she didn’t hear their sounds, and then she heard their sounds, but they were in an odd echoey way. I hurt. She began feeling sleepier, and her eyes closed hard. “Do you mind if I take a nap?”
“No,” kindness showed on Kevin’s face. “Go to sleep.”
“I feel dizzy.” She shifted her body back and forth to find her balance. “I’m dizzy.” She slurred her words and then spoke in an odd, euphoric way. “I can’t talk right. My words are slurring.”
“That’s normal for someone who has just been drugged.”
I’m fine. Her heart jumped, but just a little. She forced her eyes open. Stay awake. “Have you found the man who killed Andrew’s family?”
“Yes.”
“Who did it.”
“I did.”
“Why would the FBI kill a family.”
“I’m not with the FBI.”
“But you showed me your badge.”
“I collect badges.”
“How.”
“The same way you collected your private investigator badge you used at the sporting goods store.”
“You’re not Kevin.” Adrenaline filled her. “You’re Rick Weber.” She felt better for a moment but fell back into drowsiness fast. “Would you please get the money out of my closet before I go to prison for grand larceny?”
“Your behavior’s in question, not the money.”
“I am so sorry… please forgive me.” I need my gun to save my life. But she didn’t have the energy to pull it from her strap. She rested her head against the window, relaxing and looking at the chrome Lamborghini logo and a speck of dust. There’s a speck of dust. It’s fuzzy and gray. It came in through the window. Dust does that. He cleans his car with a detailing rag. Dust escapes rags. Sometimes… dust escapes. Dust escapes… like me. I need to escape. She needed to go to sleep. I’ll go to sleep first. When I wake up, I’ll escape. I’ll be fine here. There’s nothing to hold my head up, and it’s getting dark. She saw ever-increasing darkness, and then she saw black.
27
Meghan opened her eyes, slowly adjusting to her new surroundings. It was an odd place to wake, and she was trying hard to orient herself. She was in a bedroom decorated in Scandinavian furniture with cream-colored drapes near a sliding glass door.
Intense winds whirled through the pines, and the walls were covered with impressionist art. She looked out the window past the creek where rocky walls towered straight up, five hundred feet to grey clouds above a canyon’s crest. It was close to a hiking trail called Big Falls in the San Gabriel Mountains, a thirty-minute drive from where she grew up in Big Bear.
She walked over to the window. She was at a high altitude and deep in the mountains with wildlife. More sounds of high winds filtered through the glass as she looked into the branches of pine trees, swaying in the breeze. Finding no bears sitting in the limbs, she scanned the snowfall for animal tracks, paw prints.
There were no signs of wild animals. She opened the sliding glass door and stepped into the dark shade of the pines, recalling waking up from a dream. The fresh mountain air made me dream of snowboarding at Big Bear. I lost my balance in my dream and fell into the snow. Deep in the pine trees, several raccoons, coyotes, and deer watched me. They were so cute. I waved at them when a full-grown black bear charged down a rocky, rugged trail. My heart pounded like crazy when I saw a mountain lion right next to me, and I woke up here, in Forest Falls, two hours from Seal Beach, without my Bugatti.
She was suddenly filled with a wild fury. She returned to the bedroom and sat on the bed, listening to the howling wind. She was angrier than she had been in a long time. All she could think of were the sur
fing sessions she shared with Andrew and the moments before she spent that hundred dollar bill.
She ached to turn back the clock before the time Detective Davis busted her, and as she thought of it, a wild growl broke from her. She fell back into bed and pulled out the M&P 9 Shield pistol, and feeling like a cougar, she curled up in her territory and planned to regain her life.
An hour later, she rose from the bed without checking if she were presentable and hurried to the door. With a confident hand, she turned the knob. I have to talk with Rick Weber, the man who put the money in my closet, killed Andrew’s family and drugged me. She walked right into what looked like the living room.
Rick Weber stepped into the room from another doorway. She thought he looked surprised, dressed in white socks, white jeans, and a tan shirt. His golden suntan looked darker in the house as he stood there looking boyish.
“Down at the beach.” Rick eyed the gun in her hand. “They had a jail cell with your name on it. I had to drug you and hold you up here, in the mountains, where you’d be safe.”
Just seeing him, she felt more secure. But she had never met him, and she was more than a little surprised by his audacity. She was tired and hungry, and she felt the need to have some food, plus answers. “All I wanted was to ask you to get the money out of my walk-in closet.”
“People involved in high-profile cases where police have violated their civil rights, and cop-killer cases get killed in jail. I told you I lip read, remember? How’d Jennifer know you had that gun strapped to your leg? I saved your life.”
She was suddenly conscious of the Smith & Wesson handgun. It made her feel uncomfortable in front of him, but she pointed the gun at his chest. “I’ll shoot.”