Without a Trace

by Michael Cross

  “Am I ever not ready?”

  I shrug. “Didn’t seem too ready when I called you earlier,” I note. “Also, you seemed pretty cranky.”

  “Don’t start with me,” she laughs.

  It’s late in the afternoon now, and I’ve got my laptop open. Justice is staring back at me from the screen of my laptop. She looks down at her keyboard, hits a few keys, and a timer pops up in the corner of the screen.

  She gives me a nod. “Okay, do it.”

  “Right. Here goes nothing.”

  I pick up the burner and press the button to make the call. I hold the phone to my ear and wait.

  One ring. Two. Three. Four.

  And then the call is connected.

  I pause for a moment, but whoever’s on the other end of the line doesn’t say anything. I can hear him breathing though, as well as the sound of muffled voices and what sounds like glasses clinking, though it’s too distorted to make out clearly. But he doesn’t hang up this time. So that’s a start.

  “Hello,” I start. “Is somebody there?”

  There’s a slight pause. “How’d you get this number?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure,” I respond. “Is this Leonard? I was hoping you could—”

  “Who is this?” he demands.

  His voice is deep and gruff, and to me, he sounds a bit older. He’s got a slight muddled accent. It’s like a faint Southern twang mixed with a harsh New York bite. It almost sounds like he’s either worked hard to get rid of the twang or has lived outside the South for so long, it’s just naturally fading.

  “Actually, I was kind of hoping you could tell me that too.”

  “This some kinda joke?”

  “Not at all. Look, I was in a coma for nine months, and when I woke up, I found that I’d lost my memory,” I explain. “I found this phone, and this was the only number programmed into it, so I was—”

  “Yeah, you need to lose this number,” he snaps. “I got out of the game, and if you knew what’s good for you, you would too.”

  I cut a glance at the timer on the screen. Justice holds up her hands and mouths ‘Thirty seconds!’ into the camera. That’s all the time I need.

  “Wait. Just wait a minute,” I say. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what game. All I want is to figure out who I am.”

  There’s a pause on the line as if he’s considering something. I glance directly into Justice’s eyes, but she’s typing frantically now, working on that trace.

  “Listen, I know for a fact you’re a Tower operator,” he finally says. “I don’t know what you want with me, and I don’t want to know. Like I said, I got outta the game, and I ain’t comin’ back in.”

  “That’s not what—”

  “Don’t bother callin’ this number again,” he continues. “We got nothin’ more to say to each other.”

  The line goes dead in my hand. I look up at Justice, but her head is in her hands.

  “Fifteen seconds,” she mutters. “That’s all we would have needed.”

  “Shit,” I growl and drop the phone onto the table.

  I take a moment to seethe, then toss myself angrily onto the sofa. Justice is still working, her eyes darting back and forth directly at the screen. I wonder what she’s looking at.

  “The best I could do was triangulate the towers the call was pinging off,” she says. “That gives us a four-mile radius.”

  “Shit,” I repeat. “That could be half of the city.”

  I drum my fingers on the table, knowing that’s not going to be anywhere near good enough. But then Justice laughs, causing me to look up at her.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You give up too easily. I never pegged you for a quitter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that, because I am a superhero and all, I am not so easily thwarted,” she grins. “I ran the trace concurrently through a kickass program I wrote and was able to narrow it down to just half a mile. I can get you on the block the call came from.”

  I sit up, feeling suddenly heartened. That would narrow the search area down significantly.

  “Have I told you lately that you are a genius?” I ask.

  “No, but you really should.”

  “You’re a genius,” I tell her. “Remind me to buy you a spandex outfit and a cape, superhero.”

  “Sounds great. I love spandex!” she winks. “Sending the info to your cell now.”

  “Excellent. Appreciate it, Justice.”

  “Hey, I’m just glad to be part of the team.”

  “Speaking of which, are you still practicing all of the tradecraft I taught you?”

  “Of course I am,” she beams. “And I’m going to be in the field in no time.”

  “I know you will, and you’re going to be great. But try not to make it too soon,” I tell her. “I’m finding that I need your skills.”

  She smiles wide. “Of course you do,” she chirps. “I am pretty fantastic, after all.”

  “Yes you are. Just don’t let it go to your head,” I tell her. “Otherwise, I’m coming back to Chicago to teach you some Tae Kwan Do so I can kick your ass.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah okay, tough guy.”

  “Alright, I’m out,” I tell her. “Looks like I’ve got some work to do here after all.”

  “Good luck. And be careful out there.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  I disconnect the chat and close my laptop. Stuffing it into my bag, I grab up my things and head out to the car. Now, I need to find Leonard Graves—if that is his name—and get some answers from him.

  Chapter Three

  I sit in the car parked across the street from one of the two bars on this block. Justice did me a huge solid in narrowing my search field down this far. The kid really is good, and she’s got all the tools to be an incredible field operator.

  Justice doesn’t have the demeanor I normally associate with operators, who all seem to be dark and dour. Like me, I guess. I know that I’m always serious and feel like there’s a weight constantly on my shoulders. But Justice is always so bright and cheery. It seems like nothing affects her, and if she’s bearing any weight, it’s not holding her down.

  At first, I didn’t think she was serious enough to be effective in the field. I didn’t think she had that gravitas required to do the job. As if solemnity is a requirement to work in the field. But after spending time with her in Chicago and getting to know her a bit, I can see that she does take the work seriously. She’s passionate and dedicated. And she’s already pretty highly skilled.

  Justice impressed the hell out of me. And I’m pretty sure that’s not an easy thing to do. Her bubbly personality, rather than being the liability I first saw it as could end up being a tremendous asset. I doubt anybody would suspect the bubbly girl of being an operator until she stuck a knife in your heart.

  I open up my laptop and play the clip from the phone call again, isolating the section where I’d heard the noise. I’ve already run it through some filters to try and clean it up. It’s better but still muffled. Even still, as I listen to it again and again, I become more certain that it is the sound of glasses clinking. Maybe somebody is toasting, or maybe somebody is cleaning up, but it’s definitely glasses connecting together.

  The street I’m on is near the Nicollet Mall, which is in an upscale section of downtown Minneapolis. It’s lined with boutique clothing shops, an art gallery, a bookstore, a couple of small restaurants, a bakery, and two bars. I’m sitting across from one called Hushpuppies.

  I admit it’s a reach, but I heard the Southern twang in the man’s voice, and hushpuppies are practically a food group in the South. So I reason that maybe he’s still proud of that heritage and brought it up here to Minnesota with him.

  This is, of course, assuming the man I spoke to owns the bar. I realize it’s a mighty big ‘if’. But at the moment, I’ve got absolutely zero other leads to go on. The man said he knew for a fact that I’m a T
ower operator, which means he has to know who I am. So, here I am with nothing more than a wing and a prayer.

  I get out of the car and head across the street. Only about half an hour has elapsed since the phone call, so the trail is still fresh. If the guy owns the place, there’s a good shot he’s still here. If not, I just have to hope the call didn’t spook the guy enough to bolt.

  Grabbing the handle, I open the door and am hit by a gust of warm air. The sixty-degree day is falling precipitously into a cold, blustery night, so it feels nice to come in from the chill. The interior of the bar is done in light wood, red brick, and warm, inviting colors. There’s a long bar against the wall to my right that’s polished to a mirror finish and set with brass fixtures.

  To my left, a row of red-cushioned booths is set against a brick wall. And in front of me, tall tables fill the space between the booths and the bar. Framed pictures of Minnesota sports icons hang on the walls along with pennants and other pieces of memorabilia.

  The place is about three-quarters full, and there’s a loud hum of conversation. A pair of large flatscreen televisions hang behind the bar and another half dozen are mounted throughout. Most of them are tuned to the Timberwolves game, others to various other games from around the country.

  I walk in and take a seat at the bar a couple of stools down from an older guy who gives me a once over before turning back to his beer. I keep an eye on him in my peripheral vision as a twenty-something, tall, well-built bartender steps over to me.

  “What’ll you have?”

  “Newcastle on tap, if you have it.”

  He nods. “Coming right up.”

  I can scratch the bartender off the list. His voice is deep but carries no hint of a drawl. Too young, anyway. The bartender drops off my drink and hustles away to flirt with a cute blonde at the end of the bar who doesn’t look old enough to be in here. But then, I’ve noticed that women look younger to me these days. They look more like girls to me than women.

  “I must be getting old,” I mutter.

  I spoke loudly enough so the guy a couple of stools down could hear me, hoping it would entice him to speak. I need to hear his voice. He follows my gaze to the blonde at the end of the bar then turns back to me, a grin pulling the corners of his mouth upward.

  “Ain’t we all?” he says. “All I know is they didn’t build ‘em like that when I was that age.”

  “Amen, brother.”

  I raise my beer mug to him and nod. He’s not the guy. I take a long drink of my beer and make it look like I’m watching the game, but I actually start using the reflective surfaces behind the bar to scope out the room. It’s an easy bit of tradecraft, one I suddenly realize I had forgotten to teach Justice. I make a mental note to do that the next time I’m in Chicago.

  I pretend to be absorbed in the game as I listen to all of the conversations around me. I pick out the voices, straining my ears to listen. But I don’t hear the voice I’m listening for. Figuring this is a dry hole, I’m just about to finish my beer and head for the next bar when the burner phone rings. I slip it out of my pocket, suddenly glad I thought to bring it along.

  I connect the call and press the phone to my ear. “You have a really nice bar, Leonard,” I say. “It’s so cozy. Welcoming.”

  “How’d you find my spot?”

  “I’m very good at what I do.”

  There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. I can practically see him tearing his hair out. In my defense, though, he should’ve expected me. He knows I’m an operator. He should have known the Tower wouldn’t hire somebody who can’t do the job and do it well.

  “Thought I told you I got nothin’ for you,” he says.

  I turn around on the stool, looking around the bar. I don’t see anybody on their phones or overtly looking at me though. Not that I would expect the man to be so obvious about it. I don’t like the fact that he made me before I saw him, but I am glad to see that my instincts were spot on. It also gives me a bit of leverage.

  “Hey, I don’t know what you’re so worked up about,” I offer. “I just popped in to have a beer and watch the Wolves play.”

  “Cute,” he growls. “You should probably go before you get yourself hurt.”

  I chuckle. “I can take care of myself.”

  My eyes keep scanning the room, but nobody stands out. This guy is either really good, or he’s not actually in the bar. Looking up around the ceiling, I see the cameras and wonder if he’s in the back office.

  “So tell me, did you scamper out the back when I came in?” I ask.

  “Boy, you don’t want to push me.”

  “Listen, you want me gone? I’ll go,” I tell him. “Just answer a few simple questions for me, and you’ll never see me again. You have my word on that.”

  “Your word, huh?” he grumbles. “And what’s that mean to me exactly?”

  I take a drink of my beer, continuing to look around casually. “If you know my record and know who I am, you shouldn’t have to ask that question.”

  I hear him sigh. “I answer your questions, and you’ll leave me alone for good?”

  “On my honor.”

  “Fine. I’ll text you the time and location.”

  “You back out on me, I’m going to get real comfortable in this place.”

  “You don’t want me questionin’ your word? Then don’t question mine.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “One more thing,” he snaps. “Finish your beer and get the hell out of my bar.”

  I laugh and disconnect the call. But I do as Leonard says and finish my beer. After that, I walk out of the bar and head out to the car to wait for his text.

  Chapter Four

  Leonard Graves made me wait more than an hour for his text. But it finally came through. I drove immediately to the location he sent me, ready to talk. And now I’ve been sitting on a bench in the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden for the last twenty minutes staring at a giant bent spoon with a giant cherry sitting on it.

  The whole sculpture extends out into the middle of a lake and makes absolutely no sense to me. In fact, very few of the sculptures I’ve encountered on my walk out here make sense to me. Admittedly, I’m not very knowledgeable or cultured when it comes to art. Maybe this has some sort of symbolic meaning. A commentary on man’s place in the universe, or some esoteric bullshit like that.

  I know he’s out there, somewhere in the darkness. I can feel him watching me. Making sure this isn’t some sort of trap. I don’t begrudge him that. In his place, I’d do the same thing. And though he’s mostly quiet on his feet, I can feel him approaching me from behind. I shift on the bench, casually adjusting myself so I have easier access to the gun hidden under my coat.

  “Ain’t no need for that,” he starts. “I ain’t armed.”

  I turn my head and look at the man as he comes around the bench and sits down on the bench beside me, gazing out at the same sculpture I’ve been staring at. I notice the jerky limp he walks with and the stiff way he sits down, but don’t say anything for the moment. It does make me curious though. We’re both silent for a few minutes, letting the tension in the air dissipate.

  “What do you think that sculpture means?” I ask. “What are they trying to say?”

  Leonard chuckles. “Hell if I know.”

  “Where’d you lose it?” I finally ask. “The leg.”

  “Afghanistan,” he says. “Just outside of Jalalabad.”

  “What happened?”

  “Prisoner transport,” he tells me. “Convoy got hit by rockets.”

  I nod. It’s a story that rings a bell of familiarity in my head, though I can’t say why. I turn and look at him. He’s broad through the shoulders and chest, though time’s softened his middle. Even still, he looks like he can put a beatdown on somebody, older, softer, and missing a leg. Trained or not, Leonard Graves is not a man I’d want to tangle with.

  His skin is the color of caramel, eyes that are darker than pitch, and he’s got a head f
ull of thick white hair. He’s got a look of wisdom about him. Like he’s seen some terrible things in his time. He’s also got a distant look in his eyes that I recognize from my own reflection. It’s a look that says he’s done some terrible things in his time.

  “Nice to finally meet you, Leonard,” I tell him.

  He waves me off. “They don’t know that name here. That’s for somewhere else.”

  “What should I call you then?” I ask.

  “Just call me Bob,” he says. “Bob Smith.”

  “Bob Smith, huh?”

  “That’s what I said,” he replies. “You?”

  I grimace, realizing my pseudonym is as ridiculous as his. Nothing I can do about that though. At least not yet. I’m hoping this meeting changes that.

  “Echo,” I finally say. “Where are you from? I hear the South in your voice.”

  “Originally? Charleston. Been here a long time though.” He turns to me. “So we here just for a meet and greet, or you got some questions for me?”

  I chuckle softly. “You know who I am?”

  “In a way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Leonard—Bob—leans back against the bench and stretches his arms out. “It means I know of you. I don’t know you,” he explains. “You really lost your memory, huh?”

  “For the most part, yeah. I mean, I remember small things now and then. Catch snippets of a memory. But I seem to recall all of my training without any problems,” I nod. “Other than that, though, it’s like somebody just erased everything in my head.”

  He whistles low. “That’s a tough break.”

  “That’s one way to put it,” I say. “So how are you connected to the Tower?”

  “Never said I was.”

  “You would have to be to know it exists and to know that I work for them,” I counter. “After all, anonymity—”

  “Is their greatest strength,” he finishes for me.

  We share a laugh. I have to admit that the meeting is going a lot smoother than I expected. Bob seems to be more open and friendly than he was on the phone.

  “Truth is, I used to work for ‘em,” he sighs. “Served as a Case Officer. And you were originally assigned to me.”