Open Chains

by D. F. Bailey

  “Just the rumint.”

  Rumint. Rumors and intelligence, the old Iraqi jargon still in play. “So which was it, rumors or intelligence?”

  “Rumors. But credible. Apparently one of the fifteen Iraqi fighters picked up on your CH-47 chopper” — he shifted his hand toward Sinclair — “was Mahmoud Jamal Ali. Ring a bell?”

  Finch glanced at Sinclair. They both shrugged and J.R. continued. “Ali was the one, maybe the only, double agent who managed to turn the tables on us. He knew our network inside out. Hundreds of our friends on the ground. But he was so deep undercover that only the top dog in military intelligence knew who he was.”

  “You mean General Vincent?”

  J.R. nodded, a barely visible dip of his chin. “Brodie was advised that Ali was on the chopper. But he had no way of knowing which of the fifteen Iraqis he was. When the CH-47 was hit, Brodie made a snap decision.”

  “So everyone had to die,” Sinclair whispered.

  “And because it was a national security issue, the attack on the chopper provided the perfect cover to ensure no one ever questioned Ali’s execution.”

  “So then Deacon Brodie’s record was sealed,” Finch added when he saw how the pieces fit together, “and he could never be held accountable.”

  “Unless some of us came forward. And Brodie knew that, too. So one by one —” Sinclair stopped himself and bunched his hands in his pockets.

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t win this.” Eve leaned forward as she spoke to ensure she had their attention. “The fact that Brodie resumed killing the last witnesses means that he believes the sealed records can be opened. When the courts determine that American Army vets are being assassinated, they won’t remain idle. It’s politically impossible. Damnit, we’ve got facts that cannot be hidden, and all of them are on our side.”

  A heavy silence fell over them. No one could maintain eye contact with anyone else — a mood that reminded Sinclair of the moments after Brodie threw the last prisoner from the CH-47. “She’s right,” he said. “I can’t sit on this any more.” He looked at Finch. “I have to testify.”

  Finch set his hand on Sinclair’s shoulder, then slid his fingers up to embrace the side of his neck. “All right. Unless you disagree with John, then we stick to plan A.” He waited a moment to allow for any objections, then continued. “Good. So, at nine a.m. this thing is going to explode on mainstream media. The Post is going to publish six stories all at once. And we need to ride the momentum all the way to the end of the rodeo.”

  “The rodeo?” J.R. let out a laugh. “I forgot what a cowboy you are, Will.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” Finch waved a hand to dismiss the joke. “Why don’t you show him that photograph, John. Just to refresh his memory.” Finch glanced at his watch and turned to Teesha. “Nine o’clock in the morning work for you?”

  “I’ll have the coffee on,” she said.

  “How ‘bout I bring some eggs and bacon from the co-op?” Eve asked.

  “That’d be sweet.”

  Teesha and Eve exchanged a knowing look. A nod of resignation. Feed the men.

  ※ — FIFTEEN — ※

  EVE HEARD THE rainwater thrumming through the downspouts that ran from the roof gutter past the corner window of the B’n’B. She eased Finch’s arm away from her waist, rolled over to the bedside table and checked the time on her phone. 7:12 — too soon. She felt as if she could use another hour of sleep, but forced herself out of bed and peered out the window onto the road. The rain seemed to descend in sheets fluttering in the breeze. She tugged her nightie over her head, tiptoed into the bathroom and adjusted the water temperature in the bathtub. When she had it right, she pulled the faucet toggle and stood under the shower and let the warm water drizzle over her shoulders and down her back while she formed a plan.

  She knew they had a long day ahead of them. First, she and Finch had to drive back to J.R.’s cabin and discuss a scheme that would dovetail with the bombshell stories that The Post would publish in less than two hours. As soon as the news broke, it would be picked up by every major media channel in the world. The Post would be pressed to deliver proof of the allegations of murder and conspiracy. Eve had instructed Fiona Page to surrender Joey Kinsella’s diary and Tony Turino’s audio interview to the San Francisco District Attorney. Fiona would also state that The Post had an eye-witness to the murders — John Sinclair — whom they would identify if the FBI guaranteed Sinclair’s safety.

  This last tactic would come as news to Sinclair. On the drive back to town from J.R.’s cabin, Finch and Eve realized that Sinclair would have to come forward soon after the story broke. Within a day if possible. Two at the latest. Anything longer and they would lose the initiative and give Brodie an opportunity to regroup and shut them down. Especially if the department of defense blocked any investigation of Brodie’s war record. Combined with a few supportive tweets from the president, they could be thrown into a war of attrition that might drag on for months.

  After their breakfast meeting Eve and Finch would drive back to San Francisco to coordinate The Post’s responses to the media tsunami that would sweep through the office. The TV interviews, the phone calls, the social media, the police, the lawyers, the politicians — all of it would have to be stage-managed to provide a consistent, coherent narrative: The would-be US secretary of state, Deacon Brodie, is a mass murderer and serial killer.

  The scale of what they now faced made Eve shudder. She turned off the shower taps and dried herself in one of the fluffy towels stacked beside the bathtub. While Finch continued to sleep, she dressed and then slipped down the carpeted stairway to the long, open foyer of the B’n’B. She tugged on her rain jacket and climbed into the Acura and drove the three blocks over to the Ashland Food Co-op.

  Apart from a few shoppers and the staff working the morning shift, she had the store to herself. She picked up a dozen free-run eggs, half a pound of Canadian back bacon and ten pretzel buns. On the way to the cash register, she selected a bunch of mixed cut flowers for Teesha and had them wrapped in white tissue paper. As she left the store and drove back to the B’n’B she felt a current of warm energy humming through her body. Despite the rain, the day had started out on a positive note. She knew she could do this. All of it.

  ※

  Finch and Eve checked out of the B’n’B at eight thirty. Barely enough time to arrive at the cabin on the appointed hour: nine o’clock. The rain fell in a steady beat as Finch drove up the long hill that led to the west side of Mount Ashland. He suspected that the rainstorm was pushing in from the Pacific and once they were on the windward side of the mountain, the rain would become a downpour.

  “Or not,” Eve said when she considered his prediction. She didn’t want to release the warm, optimistic feeling that had come over her while she was shopping. “Anyway, what difference does it make? All we have to do is convince John to go on record once we guarantee his safety.”

  “That’s all we have to do?” Finch was skeptical. “The guy’s fickle. I’ve seen him change his mind two or three times already. And this” — he lifted both hands from the steering wheel and raised them as if beseeching the gods — “persuading him to come out against Brodie after fifteen years of silence, this is a big ask.”

  “Will, it’s all about attitude. Our attitude.” She knew how to score points with him. Remain steady, serene, focused. “We both know he has to go on record. And despite his anxiety, he knows it, too. Think about it. After fifteen years hiding in England, he came here to find you. You. Why? So you could lead him forward and he could tell his truth. All he wants now is for you to open the door for him.”

  “Ha-ha.” He laughed without much conviction. On the other hand, he knew Eve had a point. “All right, so when we talk to him this morning, all I have to do is ease him through an open door. Right?”

  “Exactly.” Eve crossed her arms over her chest knowing that despite his tone, he’d come around to see her view. Then she noticed a break in the cloud
s ahead. “Look to the right, darling. Big patch of blue sky.”

  He glanced past her, past the stand of evergreen trees toward the pool of blue light illuminating the clouds. Then he turned his attention back to the blacktop as they entered a winding stretch that led to the southwest side of the mountain and down into the forest. A moment later the rain faded and he knocked the windshield wipers down to a half-beat. Within ten minutes the rainstorm had passed. The wipers yelped as the rubber blades dragged across the dry glass. He shut them off.

  “Told ya.”

  “Your predictions are spot on today, Eve. Time to buy that lottery ticket you’ve been putting off.”

  She smiled. “Naw. Once in a lifetime is plenty.” Besides, I got you, she thought, but decided to keep mention of that win to herself.

  They entered a single lane passage surrounded by Douglas firs. The trees were so tall that they formed a canopy above the asphalt that enveloped them in a long, dark tunnel. Finch switched on the headlights and cut his speed as he navigated one turn after another. The slick road had no shoulders and when he saw a car coming toward them — a black Cadillac Escalade — he pumped the brakes once, then again.

  The Escalade slowed too, and as they passed, their combined speed dropped under ten miles an hour. The windshield wipers on the Escalade pumped once, and as the glass cleared on the Escalade, Eve caught sight of the driver.

  “Fat cat,” Finch muttered as he pressed on. “Not likely a local.”

  “No,” Eve whispered. “You know, I think I’ve seen that guy.”

  “Who, the driver?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, who is he?”

  Eve drew a hand over her lips and tried to place him. “Dunno,” she muttered and let the image of his face fade into the shadows cast by the forest.

  Ten minutes later the Acura turned onto the twin tracks leading from the road down to J.R.’s cabin. The car bounced over the uneven ruts as they coasted through the series of twists and turns along the downward slope. At the foot of the hill stood the homesteaders’ cabin in all its backcountry glory. Once again he marveled at the remote wilderness that J.R. had discovered. The building reminded Finch of a Norman Rockwell painting. Humble in its pedigree, yet proud of the pioneer spirit it represented. After he nosed the Acura into the slot beside Teesha’s Ford Taurus, he cut the engine and opened his door.

  Eve slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder and lifted the bag of bacon, eggs, buns, and flowers in her right arm. As they walked toward the front porch, she grasped his hand in her fingers and swished their joined hands to and fro. Two lovers off for a midmorning picnic.

  In the distance two or three dogs took up a chorus of barking.

  “Did you hear them last night?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” But she wasn’t sure of it. The memory of the dogs took on the same uncertainty as the driver of the Escalade. Who? What?

  “I can smell the coffee,” Finch said as he tapped on the cabin door. He listened for the sound of J.R.’s heavy voice. Nothing.

  “J.R? Teesha?” He struck the wooden door with the flat of his hand. “Anybody home?”

  He traded a look with Eve.

  “Is it open?” she asked.

  He turned the handle. The door opened and they stepped inside.

  ※

  The coffee percolator burbled on the top of the Montgomery Ward stove. Four logs stacked cabin-style glowed in the inner hearth of the fireplace. A few sections of the Ashland Daily Tidings, the local newspaper, were scattered across the coffee table. Next to them lay John Sinclair’s photograph of the seven witnesses to Deacon Brodie’s crimes. On the floor next to the sofa, stood Sinclair’s unzipped duffle bag. From the open bag, the single sleeve of a checked shirt dangled to the floor as if it had just escaped captivity.

  “J.R?” Finch pushed the bedroom door ajar. It revealed the unmade bed, the dresser, the narrow closet, the single window covered by a sheer curtain.

  “Odd. The coffee’s ready, but it looks like they’ve left.” Eve set her purse, the food and flowers on the dining table.

  Finch opened the back door that led to the outhouse. He took a step forward then felt the jolt — it came like a hammer blow that struck him in the chest. “No. No. No!” he cried.

  “What?”

  He gasped in an effort to catch his breath before he could speak. “They’re gone.”

  “Gone?”

  He crooked his thumb toward the yard. “Dead.”

  “What?”

  She moved next to him but Finch stretched his arm across the doorframe to block her. Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward. He read the determination in her face and dropped his arm. When she saw the bodies, she let out a cry.

  “My God,” she wailed — then in a whisper — “he killed them all.”

  They stepped onto the grass and walked ten or twelve feet to the first body, then Finch squatted on his haunches for a closer look. J.R. lay on his stomach, his torso covering Teesha’s hips and legs. He’d taken a shot through his spine and a second to his skull. Teesha, also face-down, had been wounded in the right shoulder then shot behind her right ear. Ten feet along, just steps away from the outhouse, Sinclair lay on his belly. He’d been hit in the thigh. The coup de grace had opened a one-inch hole in the back of his head.

  “They were on the run,” she said.

  “Yeah.” Finch tried to make sense of the way the bodies were arrayed at his feet. “It looks like J.R. was trying to block the bullet that hit Teesha.”

  “Maybe.” She nodded. Then she bent over Sinclair’s corpse to examine his wounds. “The shooter was a pro. Three knock-down shots, then one head shot each.”

  She stood and gazed into the forest that stretched beyond the outhouse. A light breeze pulled through the fir trees. Then an idea drifted through her as if it might be carried by the wind.

  “You know that Escalade we passed coming down here?”

  “Yeah?” Finch pressed his hands on his knees to lift himself from J.R.’s and Teesha’s huddled corpses. He’d crouched next to their bodies and one after the other, held his fingers to their carotid arteries hoping to catch a pulse. He knew the test would be useless, but had convinced himself of its necessity. Then he scanned the ground for the brass that would have been ejected from automatic weapons. Whoever had cut down his friends had taken the time to gather the bullet casings before he departed.

  “I just remembered where I saw the driver. Up in Lake Sammamish. Where we parked at the end of Brodie’s driveway. He was the one who checked out our car.”

  “The Russian?”

  “Yeah.” She considered what this could mean. “Will, what if he recognized me?”

  As Finch studied her face, he heard the deep baying of the dogs in the distance. Only then did he realize that they’d been silent since he and Eve had stepped onto the killing field behind the cabin. His stomach churned and he searched for a path in the woods. There, just past the outhouse.

  Under the noise of the barking dogs, they heard the purr of a car engine at the front of the cabin. A second later, the motor cut out. Then he recognized the clup, clup, clup of three car doors slamming shut in sequence. Three men, Finch figured, maybe four.

  “Eve, we’ve gotta run.”

  She didn’t wait. Ten seconds later they were crashing through the forest along a faint deer path that led them into the shadows. After a few minutes both of them had adapted their pace and stride to the uneven trail, the long roots crisscrossing the forest floor and the patches of loose earth that shifted underfoot. Once they established a pace, Eve led them around a steep hill, a granite rock face that formed a long blade that rose about fifteen feet above them. When she reached a fork in the path, she held up her hand.

  Finch paused and anchored his hands on his knees to draw his breath. During the three months he’d spent on Mayne Island, he’d maintained a jogging routine. Every second day he ran up and down the roads from his cabin to the village post office. A
fter a short break, he jogged back home. The five-mile loop took him just under an hour. But this sprint through the forest was different. The rush of adrenaline, the fear, the shrubs slapping his ankles and thighs — all of it burned through his thighs and lungs.

  “Damn it,” Eve moaned.

  “What?” Finch gulped in the air.

  “I can’t believe I left my gun behind.”

  “Where?”

  “In my purse. Back at the cabin.” She waved a hand as if she’d been caught making the worst rookie move of all: losing your weapon. “Fuck!”

  “Forget it. We’ve got to move on.”

  “Which way?” Eve’s voice was pleading, begging for an answer. She held a hand to her side to staunch a runner’s stitch.

  Finch stood up and cupped his fingers around his ear. “Listen.”

  It took a moment to adjust to the susurrations murmuring through the woods. Finch had experienced all this before. When you attuned your senses to the wilderness, the forest became a near-perfect sound chamber. Finch could distinguish four distinct layers of sound in the air. First, his own staggered breathing, now settling to a steady rhythm. Second, the continued baying of the dogs — so much closer than they seemed back at the cabin. Third, the uneven pace of the predators’ feet as they broke through the undergrowth somewhere behind them. Fourth, the deep, bass voice of a man trying to settle the dogs. Finch strained to make out the words, but they came to him in a muddle.

  With the big picture in mind he tried to assess their situation. “We can’t let them flank us.” His left hand pointed back toward Brodie’s men tracking them from the far end of the granite rock face. “If they catch us against this rock —” He let the words die without completing the thought. “So we push straight ahead.” As his arm swung forward he examined the ground for any sign of a pathway. Nothing.

  “Toward the dogs?”

  Their rabid barking gave him pause. “There’s somebody there. Did you hear him? Someone trying to settle them down.”

  “Okay.” Her voice sounded uncertain, but at this point, she could accept almost any decision. “You go first.”