Leviathan

by Nicholas Gagnier

  Three days ago, I was a whole other person.

  We make our way to the fourth floor. The gatekeepers were made aware in advance, and pulled Barker from his cell, escorting to the interrogation room we first talked. His leg has been given minimal medical attention; he winces as the guards pull him into the mirrored chamber, begin cuffing him to the table.

  I let Hardwick speak with him this time. He tells Barker’s jailor to leave him hands-free. Observing through the one-way mirror, I am startled by the door behind me opening, and Ryan Royce enters as the guard leaves.

  Over the speaker, Hardwick’s voice rings loud and clear.

  “Tell me about the operation.”

  A static quality envelops the voices speaking over our heads. I watch Barker intently, scanning for any change in his demeanour or endless silence as my partner questions him.

  Beside me, Royce speaks.

  “Sorry about your mom.”

  “Aunt,” I correct him.

  “Right. You did say she was like a mother to you.”

  “So you were listening at the service.”

  “You know they don’t care about you, right?” Hardwick asks over the intercom. “West is just using you. Nobody’s coming to save you, Patrick.”

  The former altar boy says nothing.

  “I’ve always been listening. Look, I know I might come off suave and unapproachable,” Royce says, to which I roll my eyes, “but I’m not a lost cause, Ramona.”

  You’re not the problem, Royce; I’m the lost cause.

  God, I hate cliches.

  “Where is Emily Rickard?” Hardwick yells, flipping the table dividing him from Barker. Grabbing the prisoner’s throat, Hardwick pulls him from the chair, driving him toward the wall. That’s a line in the sand for me; I rush the door, inputting the code in a silver box with raised numbers. Royce and I rush in the door, wrapping arms around Hardwick’s, pulling the two men apart.

  Hardwick screams death threats at West’s lowly associate. I lose grip on the grizzled agent, which causes Royce’s to slip as well. Like a wild animal, my partner claws up the floor toward Barker, who recoils into a corner, sobbing. Hardwick cocks his fist over the younger man’s face, and Patrick Barker raises both hands above his head.

  “I’ll tell you!”

  Hardwick lowers his fist. Royce and I stop trying to grab at his arms, jaws agape. Barker collapses on the cold floor, repeating himself in sobs.

  Returning to his feet, Hardwick sneers at the former altar boy in disgust. Wiping sweat from his hairline, he defers to me.

  “Get the address, then we’ll go to Hazel to approve a pre-dawn raid. Tomorrow morning, we take this son of a motherfucker down, once and for all.”

  Out of logical responses, I nod and agree. Taking a cue, Royce says he’ll get approval from his chief as well. Both turn to leave me with Barker when I ask the detective to hang back.

  Between the crack of a doorway leading back to the mirror’s visible side, he asks me why.

  “I’ll get dinner with you.”

  “Really?” he asks.

  “Yeah, why not? For all we know, we could die tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” he smiles, “Pick you up at seven?”

  “Sounds good,” I reply.

  When he is gone, and I am alone with the most pathetic human being I’ve ever met, I wonder what has gotten into me. Ramona Knox does not agree to dinner, and if she does, it’s only because it was left in the break room as she works.

  Maybe I’m not a complete monster after all.

  I don’t know what I expected when Ryan Royce comes to my door. On some level, the casual dress, the carefree demeanour is just something I’ve come to expect. His hair receives more attention than the reputation of his colleagues, which is probably what surprises me when he collects me at my apartment wearing an actual suit.

  As I open the door, the knee-high one-piece I’ve chosen is black like my soul, but shows enough skin to make me appear human. Mascara is better applied than most mornings, usually in the driver seat of my SUV.

  The place really is a second home.

  “Wow,” Royce says, looking me up and down.

  “I know how to clean up,” I smile, closing the door behind me, “Shall we?”

  Royce is the perfect gentleman exiting the building, holding the door open as I pass him. Where I expected his beaten Saturn, a limo sits just beyond the circular driveway.

  “What is this?” I smirk, gesturing at the car twice as long as mine.

  “What? Got a buddy who owns the limo company. Gave me a discount rate. Was trying to swindle me with a towncar, but I go all out.”

  “Buddy, or informant?”

  “Look, do you want to fucking eat or not?”

  I snicker, walking past him to the limousine. Something tells me he doesn’t get the opportunity to take girls out often.

  He’s going the extra mile with me.

  Stop it, Ramona, I chastise myself as Royce tells the driver to take us to Viggo’s, but the cynic inside is alive and well.

  Little flashy to drive six blocks.

  The detective reaches into the minibar across from him, retrieving a bottle of very aged, expensive champagne. Its surface is an opaque green. It can hardly be seen through, much like my limited set of emotions. He inspects the label, and something tells me he doesn’t know the first thing about champagne.

  He divides it between two crystal glasses, passing one to me, and I can forgive it.

  He looks so good in that suit.

  Moments later, we clear downtown D.C. gridlock. The limo pulls up to the little elitist restaurant I would never come to otherwise. Again, Royce rounds the limo, holding the door open.

  I thank him, deathgrip on the small black clutch with gold chains. I almost left it at home, but needed somewhere to stash my gun in case he tried anything funny.

  Kidding. That’s in the concealed holster under my dress.

  The restaurant’s inside is a calming decal of red and white, complemented by lowlights over intimate corner booths. The plate portions are tiny and the clientele have never struggled a day in their lives, if the jewelry around the necks of wives and mistresses are any indication.

  Led by a meticulously spoken hostess to one of the booths, we shuffle in across from each other, just as a surly waiter comes by to grab our drink order.

  “What’s your finest wine?” Royce asks.

  The waiter begins to tell us when I interrupt them.

  “Forget that. Wine has been the cause of enough bad decisions this week.” I request two doubles. The man nods politely, doing a minimal job of concealing distaste for the lady demanding spirits in his establishment. When he has gone to do my bidding, Royce looks impressed.

  “Woman can hold her alcohol.”

  “You have no idea,” I reply, leaning on my elbows. “In college, I was somewhat of a drinking champion.”

  “Really?”

  I nod.

  “Called me Iron Liver, or Fort Knox.”

  Royce chuckles, says that’s funny.

  “Could probably drink Hardwick under the table, couldn’t you?”

  I chuckle as the waiter returns with our drinks. He turns his nose up at me, then walks away. I smile in return, while Royce ignores the entire exchange.

  “Don’t tell me you’re scared of one cranky FBI agent, detective,” I say, downing my first drink in two gulps. My throat burns as I set the glass down on the table.

  “Not scared,” Royce replies, “Stephen is a good man. But never tell that dude anything unless the intel’s solid. He will rip you the fuck apart.”

  “Know from experience?”

  “Yeah, actually. Brought him a lead one time that didn’t exactly pan out. From that day forward, I just give it to someone else; they’ll filter it down to Hardwick, and they can get yelled at.”

  “Sounds like you got it all figured out.” Wrapping my hand around the other glass, I repeat the process. Ice chips tremor at the glass�
� bottom, inclined to shatter into several smaller pieces; somewhat like me. Meanwhile, Royce’s expression devolves into the puppy eyes all men I seem to date come equipped with.

  “I’m glad you said yes to dinner.”

  I raise my glass, making contact with the waiter who disapproves of the crass woman at table fifteen. He comes over, asks if we’d like to consider food before more alcohol. I ask for two more doubles, some wine for Royce, and send him away. My head swims with the alcohol; a recurrent feeling this week.

  “You okay over there?” Royce asks.

  “Not really,” I tell him, “Doesn’t matter. Won’t bring my aunt back. I know that. But...I just need to feel good about myself for a second, okay?”

  The waiter returns with my drinks, and Royce’s fucking wine. He asks if he can take our order, and I say no, dismissing him once more.

  “No worries, Knox,” he replies, “Rough week, huh?”

  I down the third drink, reaching the right height for conversation without the awkward Ramona I’ve always been.

  “I’m just...losing my head here a bit, Ryan. Things that...keep replaying in my head. At the worst times, too. Like, as I’m trying to fall asleep for the two consecutive hours I can still manage, or while I’m driving.”

  “That’ll happen,” Royce assures me, “It’s not abnormal to get the jitters on your first big case, especially one this depraved. I wouldn’t wish it on the most experienced agent, let alone you. But for what it’s worth, you are doing a great job.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not looking for compliments, Royce.”

  “Not trying to give you one,” he chuckles, pausing a moment. “My first big case, was this murder. Husband killed the wife, but it wasn’t just, ‘you cheated on me so I’m gonna shoot you and your lover, leave a trail right to you.’

  “No, this guy was sick. Had us chasing our tail for a while. Fucking great liar if there was ever one; premeditated all to Hell. He was a suspect from the top, but the alibi was solid.”

  “What happened?” I ask, wrapping my hand around the fourth drink. Near the bar, my hospitable nemesis eyeballs us alongside the gentleman manning it, considering ejection.

  The detective grimaces.

  “DNA evidence nabbed him. Was a pretty new tool at the time, but everyone was so invested in its potential. But then, look at O.J.”

  “Pros and cons to everything, right?”

  Royce nods as the waiter finishes conversing with his co-worker and returns to us, asking if we’re thinking about food.

  I order another drink, downing the fourth in front of him.

  “Sorry, I’m not hungry. Can we get the bill, and one for the road?”

  The man fills our order faster than any service worker I’ve ever seen as Royce finishes his wine. I am too crass to patronize his pride and joy, and they want me out as fast as possible.

  And when I am done tormenting his poor soul, we walk out of the restaurant. To correct that, Royce walks; I stumble on his arm. My heels are uncooperative, and I am sorry for none of it.

  “Well, what now?” he asks, “Was kind of looking forward to the food.”

  I scoff.

  “Fuck that place. We’re not good enough for that shit, Ryan. It’s where lawmakers and rich lobbyists swill stupid women into sleeping with them. You don’t really want to be that guy, do you?”

  “No, not really. Pockets aren’t that deep. Heard the food was good, is all. ”

  “Good,” I say, “so let’s stop trying to pretend we’ll ever belong in a place like that, and we’ll get a slice of fucking pizza. Sound good?”

  Royce chuckles.

  “You really are something else, you know that?”

  I grin, extending my hand to him.

  “I do okay.”

  He takes it, and we begin walking side by side. On some level, I kick myself for allowing a D.C. Police Department detective to court me so soon. On another, I can’t help it; before we find a pizza joint or gravitate towards anything resembling food, we are back at my apartment. Withdrawing my key from the door, I don’t make my way inside before he turns me, hands under my thighs, lifting me into his arms.

  He starts to carry me toward the living room, but it’s too soon. I steer him the opposite way, toward the single bedroom. It was never used since Maya fell ill; if I got any sleep here, it was on the couch, holding her thin hand.

  Inside the bedroom, he throws me down on the queen sized bed. The trapped air is cool as Royce removes his shirt, pulling mine over my head and raised arms. The alcohol rages through every nerve his hands find their way around, and soon I am barely aware of the distance between sensations.

  Royce asks if I want to be on top.

  Not this time, I tell him, allowing his arms to enclose me in their safety as our naked bodies shift on the mattress.

  Tonight, for once, I want to feel protected.

  Sexual tension dissipated with the whiskey as I step out from between the sheets, I remind Royce we have to meet Hardwick in less than an hour.

  Leaning on one arm, Royce watches me dress, rehooking my bra.

  “You can stop staring at my ass,” I tell him, facing the wall.

  “Wasn’t. Just thinking.”

  “Sure,” I reply, turning to grab my pants and pull them up my legs. “What about?”

  Royce sighs.

  “Think we’ll find anything at the Ivy City address?”

  I don’t have time to stand here and theorize. I tell Royce I’ll meet him there.

  Stepping into the bathroom, lingering in front of the mirror, I lift my eyes to meet their reflection. So little to hold them in place, focus drifts back to my mouth, where they remained glued to the lips for a protracted moment of self-reflection.

  What am I doing with my life?

  Letting my clothes drop to the floor, I turn on the shower, stepping under its scalding spray. Hell is a cold place in spirit, and the pounding of burning water against my shoulders soothes the soul caged within my body’s confines.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, hair wet and dressed in a turquoise towel, Royce is gone. His side of the queen sized sheet is thrown back, and the apartment entryway is unlocked behind me.

  Moving quickly, I dress, then blow-dry sopping wet strands down my neck until tolerably damp. Donning the blue FBI windbreaker I’ve never worn, I check the chamber of my gun is loaded.

  Rather than entertain the uncertainty of a future with Ryan Royce, I climb in my SUV. Its engine revs to life as I turn the key, breaking up post-midnight darkness with high-powered headlights.

  Tell me about the house, I commanded Patrick Barker; too focused on my forthcoming date with Royce.

  What do you want to know? he asked.

  I wanted to know how often Jordan West stopped by.

  Not too often, the blurring city says back as I speed down Rhode Island Avenue toward the address in Ivy City. You’ll find him there at night. Not many beds, so he doesn’t tend to sleep at the safe house much, or at all.

  Is Emily Rickard there?

  I needed to ask if all the other kids had passed through the house. Little as I wanted to learn about their sick, pathetic operation, a young girl’s life depended on that information.

  Yes, Barker said, held in the basement, behind a steel door with an industrial padlock on it.

  I’m coming for you, kiddo.

  The house is exactly as Patrick Barker described it to me, following Royce and Hardwick’s departure from the fourth floor.

  Joining them at the staging area a block over, every agency related to this case and child welfare in general is present. Paramedics wait on the sidelines for any gruesome discoveries we might come across. Several branches with different degrees of authority over this situation are present, huddled around a small blockade of SUVs and DCPD cruisers. A plainclothes agent stops where we have gathered, whispering something in Hardwick’s ear. The rest of us pour over a map pinned to one of the car hoods, examining all escape routes away fr
om the house.

  I don’t try to eavesdrop, because the sight in front of me has all my attention.

  “Doesn’t look like much, does it?” Royce asks..

  “No, it doesn’t,” Hardwick remarks, focusing on me. “Want to address the troops, Knox?”

  I shake my head.

  “Honour’s all yours, boss.”

  “Okay, then,” Hardwick says, walking out into the center of the gathered forces. He claps his hands together, and all eyes fall on him. “Listen up, everybody! Intel says the suspects use this site as a relay before transferring their victim to a final point, where they are either sold or disposed of! Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of playing with these sick fucks.

  “Knox, Detective Royce and myself will form the initial strike team, and radio when the coast is clear to move on the target. Dufresne, Holt- you cover off the backdoor. Selek, Quincy, you take these men here and make sure nobody leaves the perimeter, got it? If we have a runner, they’ll plow right into us.

  “We have snipers on surrounding rooftops, so the chances of fucking this raid up should be slim to none, understand? If Jordan West gets away, we lose our only chance at saving Emily Rickard!

  “Alright, people! Let’s go take this asshole down, and bring a little girl home!”

  To a chorus of composed agreement, Hardwick rejoins us, and asks what Royce is smirking at.

  “Oh Captain, my Captain,” the detective quips, to which he is told to can it.

  “Bunch of fucking children these days,” my partner remarks, moving toward the location Barker said our man would be. Located in a low-income neighbourhood, the decrepit property makes Royce’s shoddy apartment look like uptown living. Its paint is peeling, windows sprayed over by time and aerosol paint. There’s no sign of working electricity anywhere in the block of homes.

  Why Jordan West would operate out here is beyond me. Seems a bit low for a former MBA.

  “Sure he’s in there?” the detective asks.

  “That’s what Barker said,” I reply, “Unless I heard the address wrong.”

  Hardwick scowls, drawing his weapon. Holding it at eye level, he takes the first steps forward. Using hand signals, he orders us to flank the door’s periphery. We assume positions on either side, waiting for him to kick the door in; it ricochets off the inside wall on impact, creaking as it loses momentum.