by Roger Weston
Flames of betrayal burned inside her. Her marriage had been a fraud. She kicked the box to the floor and cursed the man she had loved.
“I trusted you, Eric” she said. “And you lied. You ruined ten years of love and turned it into bitterness and anger.” She fought back the tears, but not for long. Every happy memory she had with Eric was now stained by the knowledge that he was not who he said he was. She would never trust another human being again as long as she lived. She had loved Eric. Even in her misery, she longed to be near him, to be comforted by his patient understanding, to hear his soft and comforting voice.
What was the gift in the box? What had he wanted to give her so badly? Was it a symbol of his love for her? What a joke. She thought of every number that Eric knew. She dialed in 2-5-0 since he’d once owned a Ford F-250. Didn’t work. Eric had enjoyed cutting firewood, but she couldn’t recall the model number of his chainsaw or even if it had a model number. Nor could she recall any model numbers of other tools. What else was there? Guns. His favorite gun for hunting was his .30 aught six. She tried 3-0-6. No luck. He also had a .357 Magnum or something like that. She dialed in 3-5-7. This time the lid opened, but she quickly closed it.
She feared what she might find in that box.
She cried. All she had left of Eric was the contents of this box.
She remembered hiding in her room as a young girl when her father came home with his contrived stories and selfish demands, breaking her mother with his overbearing tyranny. The man was quick to subdue her desperate protests with the back of his hand across her face. Meg had followed him on more than one “job hunt” that took him straight to the blackjack table where the drinking began with money stolen from her mother, and the gambling was filled with excitement that built into winnings before he lost it all.
“All you cared about was yourself,” Meg said, as if her father was right there. Selfishness was the cause, deception the symptom. That she must now compare her beloved husband with her selfish and heartless father was the greatest blow to her adult life. The black emotions worked on her like acid.
She reached for the box and opened it. There was a large shoebox inside. She removed it and took off the lid. Her eyes opened wide. The box was nearly full. Bundles of dollar bills were stacked neatly, a whole block of bills covered in plastic wrap. She lifted the block from the box, peeling off the plastic and letting the individual bundles of cash fall. There were stacks of tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds. She counted them up and the total was $75,000. She couldn’t believe it. Where could Eric have gotten his hands on this kind of money? Even though she’d worked as an adjunct professor to supplement his income, they’d never managed to get to a point where there was a significant amount of extra cash. They usually just barely got by and sometimes came up short. Financial problems had been a source of stress throughout their whole marriage, and since Eric was frequently away on business, it often fell on her to pay bills. She knew how tight things were. Several times she’d watched Eric blow up over money shortages. Late at night he had confessed his frustrations to her over the lack.
The more she reflected on their recent financial struggles, the angrier she got. How could he have put her through all of that when he had so much cash? But worse, what really infuriated her was that he had hidden the money from her. Somewhere deep in her soul she’d hoped his confession was exaggerated by pain and distress. But those hopes were now gone, replaced by new fears. Where had he gotten so much money?
Meg flipped through the bundles, then threw them down on the bed.
“How many lies were there, Eric? How many?” She looked back into the strong wooden box. An insert tray covered the bottom, a makeshift liner. She pulled the tray out, finding more surprises.
Three guns, a silencer, and a lock pick set. A cell phone with a stick-on note that said encrypted. Four passports—two for her and two for Eric.
Both of her passports had photos, but neither were her regular photos. They were pictures Eric had taken of her before plays that she had acted in. She was in full costume—her appearance altered with wigs and make-up to fit her character. In one she had long, straight black hair, her skin of a swarthy shade. In the other she was blond with a pale complexion and glasses, her hair thick, wavy and shoulder length. Not only was her appearance altered, but the names listed on the passports were false. She was Teresa Jones and Carrie Johnson. Her PhD was in the box, too. Only the degree wasn’t from any college she’d ever attended. For each new identity, there was a new driver’s license, a resume with past jobs and contact numbers, even references from people she’d never heard of. If all this wasn’t shocking enough, there were wigs, costume make-up, and a few disguises.
Eric also had passports with false names—Ben Jones and Mark Johnson, and his appearance was changed for each. Eric was no actor, and to her knowledge, he’d never been in a play. Yet in one photo, he had shoulder length hair and a long beard. In another, his hair was dyed white and treated with mousse. He wore a black leather jacket.
“I’m not who you think I am,” Eric had said.
Meg was going to be sick. Ten years she had been married to Eric, and he’d kept a secret like this. Why would Eric do this? Who was he really?
Her whole marriage was a fraud.
They’d taken vows of devotion and loyalty. For ten years she’d thought their relationship was based on honesty and love. He had promised her that he would never lie to her. But now, with his doctored passport photos, she was starting to realize that she really knew very little about the man whom she’d dared to love and trust.
She began to put everything back in the box, but when she reached for the insert tray, she hesitated. There was something affixed to the bottom side of the wood tray. A small folded piece of paper had been colored with shoe polish to match the wood grain of the box. She peeled the paper off of the bottom and started to unfold it.
CHAPTER 8
Boise, ID
Marcel Tarpeia got into the intelligence field through the back door. At age eighteen, he graduated from high school with honors, but had no money for college. He went to work at a coal mine in West Virginia. He worked long, hard hours doing work that he wasn’t suited for and didn’t like. After a couple of years of toil, he sunk into a deep depression. One day, a man who had been there forty years took him aside. Deep skin folds smothered his face, and under layers of black coal dust, his skin was pale. He was the oldest worker at the mine. Somehow he’d outlasted all the others, and everything about him said he resented it. All his movements were forced. Marcel had rarely seen him smile, and the man always looked tired and pained. “Marcel,” he said one day, “you hate this job, don’t you?”
Marcel shifted his feet. He wore no shirt, and coal dust blackened his bulging arms and muscled torso. His eyes ached, and he could taste the coal dust when he licked his lips. “It’s all right.”
“Don’t lie to me, you son of a bitch.” The old man took off his hard hat, revealing a mostly bald head with stripes of black dust on the skin.
“I hate it.” Marcel threw down his shovel.
“That’s better. Let me give you a little advice. Don’t be like me. Don’t spend forty years in a job you hate.”
Marcel glanced over at an ore car that was heaped with black rock from his shovel. He glanced at all the brutal machinery, coughed, and spit black phlegm. “I’ll just do it for another year to get a stake.”
“That’s what I said a thousand times over forty years. You’re fired, Marcel. Get the hell out of here.”
What followed was four years as a marine sniper and two years as a cop in Washington D.C., during which time he finished college. He never forgot the old man’s words, so he was always looking for the next opportunity.
When the offer came to work for a little-known international security agency, he didn‘t hesitate. It was like when he had his man lined up in the cross hairs. There was no time to stop and get philosophical. Squeeze the trigger. Now the man who once pl
odded away in a coal mine in West Virginia worked for Environmental Solutions. Life was better now. While his job title was head of security, he actually worked for a ghost corporation that his boss Carl set up to deal with the less ethical side of the environmental business.
Marcel always carried the lessons of the coal mine with him like he carried his wallet. He knew he must toil and never quit. He would put in his forty working for Carl because it was much better than the mine. He did his job. He stalked. He eliminated threats. He remembered the alternative. And he got the job done. Every damn day.
Now, here he was with ten down and thirty to go. He’d just set up a temporary field office in Boise, Idaho, and things were getting ugly. He thought of the old man at the coal mine. He wondered what the old man would think if he knew what Marcel had become. Would he still give the same advice? Or would he keep his mouth shut and let Marcel wear himself out at the mine? It didn’t much matter to Marcel. He wasn’t one to get philosophical. The old man was probably dead by now, and Marcel was alive.
Marcel had his instructions, and there was nothing else to do in life. Just like his old job at the coal mine, except this was much more exciting. He showed up day after day and completed every miserable task they had for him. Just like that. He completed the job—whether it was whacking a scumbag in Santa Monica or a drama teacher in Boise who was a threat to national security. A man did his job.
Marcel left the office and walked out into a makeshift war room where a dozen analysts hovered over their monitors.
“Gentlemen.” Marcel waited for a moment until all typing had ceased and all heads were turned in his direction. “Gentlemen, as you know, a rogue operative is on the loose. Now I’m going to tell you something you don’t know. Although Meg Coles was working as a drama professor at Boise State, she is a Russian agent with eleven known assassinations to her credit. This woman has information that is vital to our national security, and we must find her.” Marcel nodded at Mel Hobbs, a big man with tired eyes and a mug in his hand, who aimed his remote and pushed buttons. The lights dimmed. An image materialized on the big screen. It was a woman, an attractive woman with brown, shoulder-length hair. She was in her thirties, and her photo filled the silence in the room.
Marcel pulled himself out of the trance this woman’s lovely face had on him. “Take a look, gentlemen. This woman can give life to your daydreams, but do not be fooled. She is a cold killer and a traitor.”
A new image flashed on the screen. It was the same woman, and Marcel’s eyes drank up her beauty. In this photo, she sat on the porch of a mountain cabin. She was leaning back in a chair with her long legs resting on the rail. She wore tight shorts, and a loose shirt.
“This photo was taken yesterday. Miss Coles not only eluded sanction, but she killed one of our agents and escaped. We believe she is in Boise and has gone to ground. She is extremely dangerous and well armed. Furthermore, she has information that is vital to our national security. Show her close-up one more time, Mel.”
Mel did so, and Marcel knew they all appreciated another look at her. “Keep moving, Mel.”
The next photo to flash up on the screen was of a man. He was a large, bald man with a curious gaze. “Code name, Neil Hagerman,” Marcel said. “He was one of ours, and he was sent in to apprehend Miss Coles. Instead he joined forces with her. These two are working together, gentlemen, and they must be stopped.”
“Why would he join forces with her?” an analyst with thick glasses said.
“She was married to one of our best men, a man who carried a treasury of top secret information around in his brain and about $7 million in cash. A lot of damage has been done by these two, and it could get a lot worse if we don’t stop them.”
“With Neil helping her, what are our chances?”
“We must find them, gentlemen. As I’ve told you, they were last seen here in Boise where they gunned down two more of our men. Find them.”
Half an hour later, a man entered Marcel’s office. “We’ve got a hit, sir.”
Marcel leaned back in his chair to drink up the moment. “What have you got?”
“They were spotted at the Sundowner, near the Interstate.”
Marcel hurried out of the office and into the war room. He nodded at Glen, who was sitting by the door studying a map. With the operative following him down the hall, Marcel said, “We’ll take the woman alive if we get the chance, but don’t hesitate to kill her if necessary. Neil Hagerman is no longer of value. Kill on sight.”
CHAPTER 9
Meg sat down in the dark and lifted her head to see the red glowing letters of the hotel alarm clock. Five in the morning and she hadn’t slept. Exhausted and nauseous, she held the piece of paper that she’d found affixed to the bottom of the drop-in tray of the wood box. Shoe polish stained her fingers. The note said,
“Meg, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Lomax can help. Get to him fast. Be invisible, watch your shadows and stay smart. They’ll do anything to get you. Lomax is on the H.O.W. docked in Seattle.”
Meg’s breath sped up and cut short. A voice had her leaping to the window and peering out. She watched for a minute until a drunk couple crossed the parking lot arm and arm. The woman could barely walk, and it reminded Meg of her father. Her fear turned to anger. Meg hated liars. Eric’s lies had shattered her life and cost him his own. Now, Meg was holed up, afraid of every sound. Her stomach was a bowl of burning nausea. Even after the drunks moved on, Meg watched the cars. She expected to see assassins sneaking through the parking lot.
Meg locked herself in the bathroom and curled up in the corner, wedged in between the toilet and the wall like a rabbit cornered into its hole by wolves. Just yesterday her life had been happy. She had harmed no one. For years she devoted herself to her husband and her job. In the theatre, she moved through fraudulence with ease. But since deception was expected in the theatre, it was okay. This was not.
“Liar,” she said too loudly and hoped the neighbor’s blaring television had masked her voice. She wiped the wetness from her cheeks.
It didn’t matter. There’s probably liars in every room.
If Eric was a liar, then everyone was. Nobody could be trusted. Nobody.
Of course she had to trust Neil, but even he … Sobs of grief shook through her.
After a while, she crawled out of the bathroom, and sat against the bed. She picked up the phone twice to call the cops, but hung up.
What was Eric involved in? Who should she call first? “Go to Lomax,” Eric had said.
Meg rejected the idea of calling Lomax. All she wanted was to get to a safe place where she could hide away and try to deal with her tragedy.
From the neighbor’s television, she heard the name “Professor Meg Coles.” She jumped up and put her ear to the wall as if the T.V. wasn’t already loud enough. A cereal jingle came on and blared even louder.
She turned on her own television and flipped channels to the local news. Her photo flashed on the screen.
“Meg Coles, a popular drama professor at Boise State University, is wanted on one count of arson and one count of homicide. She is suspected of killing her husband to steal millions in cash. She is considered armed and dangerous. If you have any information about her, call the Boise Police.”
Meg sat down in a chair. She turned off the television with a remote and stared at the blank screen. Murder—they were really framing her. How could anyone believe she would kill Eric? Arson—they’d burned down her cabin. Millions—what were they talking about?
In the box, she’d found $75,000 in cash.
Lying. The cops were lying. She found her thoughts back in Vegas again. She was a young girl. It was the first time she realized that her dad was a liar. She saw him take $50 from her mother’s purse. When Meg’s mom asked him if he took it, he said no and then chastised her for even accusing him. Their arguing slowly escalated over an hour until the loser slapped Meg’s mother. At that point, their argument became a fight that she had no chance of
winning. The jerk slapped her mom a couple more times and left her sobbing on the floor. After he left, Meg sat by her mother and thought about liars. From then on, Meg kept track of every lie her father told. Her list was three pages long, but only because she’d tried to avoid being around her father as much as she could. She’d carried those papers for years as a reminder to never trust anyone.
Now the cops were spreading lies about her. A ringing filled her ears.
Thanks to the cops, everyone now thought she was carrying millions in cash. She would be a target for every lying, deceiving lowlife there was and everyone else too.
The ringing in her ears was disturbed by a noise that banged into her consciousness at intervals. The noise got louder until it shook her like thunder that keeps repeating over and over. It was a sound that reminded her that dreams were dreams, but this was her new reality. The sound was the ticking of the clock.
Meg lifted her heavy body from the chair and walked towards the box. Her steps matched the cadence of the clock. She lifted the box, hugging it. Then set it on the faded bed spread. She lay next to the box as she caressed its smooth, finely crafted corners.
“Why, Eric, why?” she said.
She slowly opened the box and stared at its contents. Turning her head away with a snap, she pushed the box off the bed. Guns, bullets, passports and piles of cash spilled onto the rug.
Meg bunched the bed spread around her face and screamed until her vocal cords burned like Joan of Arc on the stake. She writhed in agony as if she was on fire, too. Numb from pain, she stopped and stared at the mess on the floor. She closed her eyes and began to fall asleep. Finally, sleep. Deep sleep.
A sound startled her and her eyes popped open. She listened a few minutes more. Nothing. She closed her eyes again, grogginess overtaking her.
She slept for hours until sun streaming through a crack in the curtains burned a streak on her face. She turned to stop the burning. Then the door handle to the room rattled, and her body went stiff. She remembered Neil.
