by Jack Heath
After Sariklis leaves my house, the adrenaline wears off and the sleepless night comes crashing down. I’m like a zombie, yawning and shuffling as I throw some of Elliott in the fridge and the rest in the chest freezer on top of the mystery man. The freezer isn’t quite big enough for both men—first-world problems. I have to break Elliott’s neck to make him fit.
I scrub the blood from my clothes and hang them over the heater to dry. Then I stay crouched in front of the heater for a while, letting my bones thaw. While I wait, I check the weather on my burner phone. Lake Bob Sandlin State Park isn’t far from Dallas, and it’s had record snowfall.
“I was driving to Dallas,” I say out loud. “I was supposed to go camping near Lake Bob Sandlin with my cousin, Jesse. But the weather was bad, so Jesse called to cancel. I was driving to Dallas. I was supposed to go camping.”
It’s not a perfect cover story, but it fits what I told Shawn earlier, and it’s the best I can come up with in this state. I microwave some meat and eat until my stomach hurts.
When I can’t take another bite, misery seeps in, like the cold drafts under the doors. Just after a meal is the worst time. That’s when I’m not eating, or looking forward to eating, so I have nothing to distract me from who I am. A bad guy who does bad things for bad reasons. I’m not religious, but the word damned seems to cover it.
I clean up, lock the house. I don’t want Shawn to come home and see my Toyota still in the drive, so I pull out and head for Dallas.
Houston is waking up now. The roads are getting crowded. Drowsy office workers going one way, petrochemical engineers the other. Soccer moms taking surly kids to school. Long lines at every drive-through, headlights blurred by the haze of exhaust, drivers exiting with huge throwaway coffee cups in their hands and mouths already full of bacon. The radio shouts at me, on and on, like it’s afraid I’ll fall asleep at the wheel if given half a second of quiet.
Eventually rush hour ends, and everything settles. I escape onto the highway, the only traffic a truck blasting past. Just music on the radio now, something with slide guitar over a hip-hop beat.
Sixty miles out of Houston, I pull over at a rest stop. It would be safest to go the whole way to Dallas, make my alibi authentic. But I can’t afford the gas, and anyway, it’s not really today I need the alibi for. Last night is the issue. Plus, what if Warner happens to check where my phone is? Not a good look to go far from Houston so soon after the meeting.
So I kill the engine and sit, thinking. About the dead guy, about Warner, about how much longer I can live like this. I was hired just over three months back. The traditional probation period is over, but my position only feels more tenuous.
I tell myself I’ll stay at the rest stop for two hours, but I get hungry again after one. It’s not the sort of hunger a roadside diner can fix, so I start the car and head home. Shawn is unlikely to notice that I wasn’t gone long enough for a round trip to Dallas, and I can always tell him Jesse called when I was halfway there.
It’s almost six p.m. when I tumble into bed after another meal. I’m too exhausted even to dream. A small mercy—my subconscious would have made Freud vomit.
A ringing phone wakes me.
I squint at the old clock radio by my bed. It reads 7:02. An hour of sleep is nowhere near enough, but it could be Warner. She’ll be pissed if I don’t answer. I drag myself out of bed and hobble toward the landline. My stomach still aches.
By the time I get there, I’m awake enough to remember that Warner wouldn’t use my landline. For some reason, I pick up anyway. “Yes?”
It’s a voice I haven’t heard for a long time. The voice of my conscience.
“Timothy? This is Agent Reese Thistle, FBI. I need you to come to the Houston Field Office, right away.”
CHAPTER FOUR
My square house has four walls, and they all face south. How?
I should refuse. Thistle and I have known one another since we were in foster care together. My parents were shot in a home invasion, hers drove off a bridge while she was in the backseat. I lost touch with her when she was adopted out, but when I was consulting for the FBI Houston Field Office, she became my handler. We were drawn to each other in a way that was dangerous for both of us. There were only two possible outcomes for our relationship: me getting arrested, or her getting eaten. So I pretended I wasn’t attracted to her, to keep her safe.
She didn’t take it well.
“What do you need?” I hear myself ask.
“I’d rather not discuss that over the phone.” Her voice is flat. Hard to read.
Spiders of paranoia crawl across my scalp: She knows. About why I really rejected her, or about the gruesome work I do for Warner, or both.
Except if she knew, she wouldn’t be calling me. She’d be breaking down my door with a SWAT team for backup.
Maybe she suspects, but doesn’t have enough for an arrest. I should tell her I’m coming, and then grab everything I own and skip town.
“Is this a personal call?” I ask hopefully.
“Very professional. You coming or not?”
“I’m coming,” I say. “Tomorrow?”
“What, you got yourself a nine-to-five? Riddles stopped paying the bills?”
Thistle knows about my side hustle solving puzzles and riddles. She doesn’t know that it started out as way to sell memorized credit card numbers.
“No,” I say.
“Then why not come right now? You’re up. I’m here.”
Up? I check the phone in my pocket. It’s seven a.m., not p.m. I’ve been in bed for thirteen hours and change.
Or have I? I’m a sleepwalker. I look around the room for signs that I wandered during the night. Nothing seems to have moved.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Great. See you soon.”
I love her voice, even when it doesn’t sound like it loves me. I open my mouth to say goodbye, but she’s already hung up.
* * *
The Houston Field Office of the FBI isn’t an imposing sight on the horizon. It looks like the office of a telecommunications or insurance company. Eight stories of dull green windows and grubby concrete. Just the same, I’m nervous as I climb out of the Toyota.
It’s not even a stolen car, for once. It belongs to Warner, or to a company owned by someone in her employ. I assume she’s low-jacked it so she can track my movements. That’s why I’ve parked it a couple blocks away. Unfortunately, I can’t ditch the phone. Warner might call. But yesterday, it seemed like she didn’t often monitor the feed from the tracking apps—she had me dragged into that diner without even checking where Francis had been. My odds are good.
I shouldn’t be here. I should be halfway to Mexico. But it’s possible that Thistle doesn’t want to arrest me. She might just need some information about one of my old cases. And if so, I can’t pass up the chance to see her in real life, not just in a fantasy.
The dreams don’t come every night, but they’re not getting any less frequent. Sometimes it’s a good dream, where Thistle and I live together like an ordinary couple, with a house and a dog and occasionally even kids. Other times it’s a nightmare, where I hurt her.
In the good dreams, I’m not me. I’m some other guy, with a regular job and normal hobbies. Even my subconscious knows that Thistle couldn’t love a person like me.
I scurry past some cafés and hotels and offices, head bowed against the cold like I’m at the north pole. Soon I reach the front entrance of the field office. There’s a new receptionist behind the desk—an older guy with a heavy brow who watches me with great suspicion as I come in.
“I’m here to see Agent Reese Thistle,” I say.
His gaze flicks down to my missing thumb. That often happens. It’s not as though you count the fingers of everyone you meet, but somehow people notice.
“She’s expecting me,�
�� I add.
The guy grunts and picks up the phone. I strain to hear Thistle’s voice as she tells him to let me in.
He buzzes me through the security door. Thistle doesn’t come down to meet me. Probably a good sign. But I still take the stairs rather than the elevator, just in case this is some kind of trap—the cops could shut it down between floors, literally boxing me in while they summoned backup.
The Die Hard escape method only works in movies, in case you were wondering. The trapdoor in the ceiling of an elevator car is always padlocked closed from above.
Walking along the gray corridor toward Thistle’s cubicle, I pass the director’s office. There’s a new name on the door. The soft muttering of a female voice inside.
I knew the old director pretty well. He was a corrupt ex-cokehead, willing to falsify evidence, torture a suspect or even smuggle death-row cadavers to a cannibal if it would close a case. I don’t know anything about the new director. Hopefully she doesn’t know anything about me, either.
A muffled word catches my ear: “Warner.”
My skin prickles. I lean closer to the door to listen. The new director could have said “warn her.” Or it could be a coincidence, her discussing the notorious crime boss Charlie Warner at the exact moment that I arrived.
Someone’s coming. I straighten up.
It’s Maurice Vasquez—the head of comms intelligence. He’s as handsome as a Bernini sculpture, with a straight nose, trimmed nails, slicked-back hair. He spends his time listening to wire taps, decrypting hard drives, reading hacked emails and text messages.
“Blake,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Vasquez. Long time,” I say. “How are you?”
He doesn’t look pleased to see me. Maybe he caught me eavesdropping.
“I thought you were all done with this place,” he says.
“So did I. Thistle called me in.”
He raises his eyebrows. “For a new case?”
That hadn’t occurred to me. “Not sure.”
“I’d advise you not to take it,” he says. “You of all people know how dangerous this work can be.”
“I was thinking it might be about an old case.”
“Well, whatever it is, don’t do anything dumb. Let me handle anything you’re not sure about, okay?”
I’m oddly touched. “Thanks, man. I’ll see you around.”
He nods briskly, and strides away toward the elevators.
When I get to Thistle’s cubicle, I see an unfamiliar man behind her desk. Comb-over, blue polo shirt, big watch. He looks me up and down.
“I’m looking for Agent Thistle,” I say.
He snorts, either at her or at me. “You a lawyer?”
What? “No. I’m—”
“Blake,” Thistle says from behind me. “Thanks for coming.”
My heart kicks as I turn. “Any time.”
Thistle is wearing a crisp white blouse and a necklace of pearls—probably fake, but bright against her ebony skin. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail, revealing earrings that match the necklace. The clothes and jewelry are cheap, but she looks good in them. I feel a moment of hope—maybe she’s dressed up for me. Or, more likely, she’s trying to prove that she’s doing great without me.
She sees me looking at her outfit. “I’m giving evidence in court later,” she says.
Oh. Nothing to do with me at all.
“This way.” She turns around and strides away. I keep my gaze on the back of her head as I follow.
Thistle’s new cubicle is a little bigger than her old one, and closer to the windows. It’s not a corner office, but it looks like a small promotion. Not too recent, though. She’s unpacked all her stuff. A photo of her dog, a framed bravery medal, a curved ergonomic keyboard that doesn’t match the others in the building.
For the first time, I wonder why she was originally tasked with babysitting me while I was consulting. Not much of an assignment for a twelve-year veteran of the FBI. Thistle is smart, hardworking and incorruptible—but she must have done something to piss off the old director. Maybe the new one likes her better.
She smooths down her skirt and sits at her desk. Gestures to a swivel stool in the corner of her cubicle. I sit.
“How you been, Reese?” I ask.
She forces a smile. “Fine, thanks. How about you?”
“Yeah, good.” I’m an addict with a steady supply, so I’m not unhappy, but not exactly happy, either. I’m numb, which is the next best thing to nonexistent.
“Glad to hear it,” Thistle says. “Got a case I thought you might be able to help us with.”
“Oh.”
“I know you like the weird ones.” She taps her keyboard and the computer screen lights up. She types in a password. I watch her fingers: DollyParton84.
“Weird how?” I ask.
“Day before yesterday, a math professor at Braithwaite University leaves work,” she says. “He calls his wife, tells her he’s running late. Then he makes a withdrawal from an ATM.”
I stiffen. If Thistle is investigating one of Warner’s victims, that’s bad news. Either she’ll solve the case and I’ll be out of a job, or Thistle’s shoes could show up on a beach somewhere. The latter is more likely. It wouldn’t be the first time Warner has killed a cop.
“How much?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“How much was the withdrawal?”
“Two hundred and sixty bucks,” Thistle says. “Why?”
“Did he have more than that in his account?”
“Yes. Don’t tell me you’ve solved the case already?”
Warner’s men would have withdrawn more. “No,” I say. “Sorry—just wanted to know if it sounded like run-away money.”
“Don’t think so, but it’s more than just day-to-day money, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would.” Theories are already bubbling up in my brain. I push them away. It’s always tempting to come up with a solution too early.
“So after the withdrawal, the professor never comes home. His wife reports him missing the next morning. The Houston PD traces his phone signal to a garbage dump in Louisiana, and since the case has crossed state lines, they throw it to the FBI. But we went to the dump, and the phone itself is nowhere to be found. Believe me, we did some digging.” Thistle grimaces. “No phone, no car, no body. No one at the dump knows anything. No one at the college knows anything. None of his friends or family members know anything.”
This doesn’t sound like an especially weird case. Hard, but not weird. Maybe Thistle just wanted to see me. I feel a dangerous little glow at the thought.
She looks at me expectantly. Apparently she’s ready for a theory.
“Are any of his contacts already known to the authorities?” I ask.
“None.”
“Does he gamble?”
“Everyone who knows him says no. I’ve been calling casinos, but no one has a record of him.”
“Drugs?”
“I found some pot at his apartment. Only a small amount—no sign that he was dealing. Nothing else suspicious in his residence.”
“Was it his birthday?”
Thistle sucks in air through her teeth. “How the hell did you guess that?”
Because I know how greedy people think. “Okay,” I say. “He’s middle-aged, I assume, because he’s a math professor. Maybe having a midlife crisis. Thinking about all the things he never got the chance to do before he got married and had kids—does he have kids?”
Thistle nods. “A daughter. Twenty-one.”
“Right. So the message to the wife means he was going to do something after work, something he didn’t want her to know about. I thought it might be a birthday present to himself. If it’s not gambling or drugs, it’s sex. The amount of the ATM withdrawal narrows it down. T
oo large for a night out with his mistress, but too small to get far with a sex worker, too small to pay off a secret debt or to have someone killed—”
Thistle’s eyebrows go up. “Hold on, Blake. How many crimes are you planning to pin on our victim exactly? And what kind of psycho has someone killed as a birthday present to themselves?”
“I’m just showing you why I ruled those things out,” I say. “My bet is he went to a strip club. Got drunk, bought himself a couple of lap dances. After the cash ran out and the booze wore off, he was disgusted with himself. Maybe started thinking about how the strippers are the same age as his daughter, or his students. Then he committed suicide.”
Thistle leans back in her chair. “That’s an inspiring story,” she says. “Let’s leave aside for the moment that there are plenty of hit men or sex workers who will perform their services for two hundred and sixty dollars—”
“Not discreetly,” I say. “He was well-off, right? He would have wanted discretion.”
“But if it all went down like you say, where’s his body?”
I shrug. “The bay somewhere?”
“And his car?”
I open my mouth and shut it again.
“And how do you explain the phone trail to the dump?”
I’d forgotten about that part, too.
A voice behind me says, “Mr. Blake, I’m guessing?”
I look up. A woman is standing outside Thistle’s cubicle. White, midforties, ash blond hair. Gray pantsuit. Makeup and high heels—someone not dressed for fieldwork, but always prepared to go on camera. From that and the way Thistle has tensed up, I’m guessing this is her new boss.
“Timothy, this is Marianne Zinnen,” Thistle says. “The new field office director.”
“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Blake,” the director says, extending a hand with nails painted a subtle shade of maroon.
“You’re welcome.” I shake her hand. She doesn’t seem to notice my missing thumb.
“I do hope you can help us with this case. Gabriela Biggs is a close friend of mine. She and her daughter are frantic. And Kenneth’s colleagues at the university, too.”