Operation Indigo Sky

by Lawrence Ambrose

  "Who did you say you were again?"

  "I think you know who I am, Dr. Castle." I fixed him with my best 1000-yard stare. "I represent the people you made an agreement with, for which you were very well-compensated."

  "And what is it you want to know, exactly?"

  "Exactly what she asked, and exactly how you replied."

  The medical examiner stood staring at me. I felt like I was dangling bait in front of a fish that hadn't decided whether to bite. Nothing had been proven so far, but the fact that he didn’t deny an agreement or being compensated struck me as a good sign.

  "You're not being accused of indiscretion, Doctor," I said. "We just want to know what was said. It seems noteworthy to us that Ms. Hanson would show up now asking questions."

  Dr. Castle frowned. "That surprised me as well initially. But I believe it was just a case of her seeking closure, since she'd never seen her husband's body."

  "Maybe so. But you still need to tell me precisely what she asked."

  "Very well. Precisely: she asked what had killed him, where the wounds were, and so on. She also asked me to describe him physically."

  That had been a good move by Sonja, which I hadn't even thought to suggest. I kept my face cool and a bit scornful, but inside I was giving myself high-fives. Dr. Castle wasn't explicitly confirming anything, but his lack of objections to what I'd said was confirmation enough.

  "She sounds suspicious," I said.

  "I took it more that she wanted proof that I had truly examined her husband so that she could completely accept his passing."

  I leaned back against his car, forging a skeptical expression on my face. "Are you sure about that?"

  "As sure as I can be."

  "Perhaps we should speak to her."

  "I wouldn't recommend that. I believe she's satisfied with what I told her. Speaking to her would only introduce suspicions where none exist."

  While fixing him with a stern gaze, I feverishly searched for the best way to wring the most out of this conversation. If I asked directly any of the questions I longed to ask, he'd likely shut down. Worse, if I blew it with him, that could cast suspicion on Sonja. Still, some important questions remained unresolved, and this might be my only chance. How much did I dare risk?

  "Ms. Hanson has had little to no contact with her husband for years," I said. "I doubt she'd even care if she knew he was still alive. That's why I – and my employers – wonder what her true motivations are."

  There it was. Laid right out there. He's alive. Once again, no denials from Dr. Castle. His only response was a grim frown.

  "We may have to look into her a bit," I prodded him.

  "I was promised no one would be harmed. This woman knows nothing. Besides, I doubt she'd want to screw up the million-plus she's set to receive in his will."

  "I hope you're right." I straightened up. "Carry on, Dr. Castle."

  I strolled away as though I hadn't a care in the world while I was performing a demented victory dance in my bed. I didn't start thinking seriously about Sonja Hanson's reaction until I spotted her car in the designated parking lot a few buildings down. We'd been killing time for most of the day after learning Dr. Castle's work schedule through a couple of anonymous calls.

  I slid in beside her, pokerfaced. She turned to me with narrowed eyes.

  "You found out something," she said, a tremble of excitement underneath the apprehension in her voice.

  "He basically confessed that it was a scam," I said.

  "God..." She swallowed, her faced flushing. "But how? How did you get him to confess? You didn't beat him or anything, did you?"

  "Ha. No. I pretended to be one of his hypothetical handlers. I didn't ask him much directly – just made statements and observed his responses."

  "What did you say to him?"

  "I referred to him being bribed and an agreement he'd made." I paused, meeting her gaze. "I also said something about your husband being alive."

  Some of the rosy hue departed from Sonja's face. "What did he say?"

  "Nothing when I mentioned your husband still being alive. No objections at all. He didn't deny being bribed, either."

  Sonja's hands slipped off the steering wheel and clutched each other, as though seeking mutual sanctuary.

  "Are you okay?" I asked.

  Sonja popped open the door and pushed out of her seat, murmuring, "I'll be back."

  I resisted an urge to jump out after her and apologize for being a dumb, insensitive male. Christ, she probably still loved the guy. Or maybe she was angry that he'd lied to her? Then there was the question of Gary Hanson's will. But I doubted she was thinking about that.

  Sonja stood under the trees at the far edge of the parking lot, gazing outward, her body as still as a wax sculpture. Maybe five minutes passed before she walked back in a slow, halting way.

  "Sorry," she muttered when she slid back into the driver's seat. "I just had to get away for a moment."

  "Understandable. Sorry I didn't do anything to prepare you for that."

  "What could you have done?" She glared at her reflection in the windshield. "Son of a bitch. Making me think he was dead. If I saw him now I just might kill him myself."

  I said nothing as her glare softened and a combination of sadness and perhaps dread slipped into her expression.

  "I don't know what to do next," she groaned. "Should we go to the police?"

  That thought hadn't even occurred to me. "Ah...I don't think that would be a good idea. Especially since at least some of the police may be in on this. And we don't have any solid evidence."

  "According to his lawyer, Gary made me the sole beneficiary a few months ago."

  "That might've been when they first contacted him."

  "What am I supposed to do about that? The probate court's already dragging its heels because he died 'in the commission of a crime' and compensation might be owed to various people. If I mentioned any doubt about his death, there's no chance – " She stopped herself and flashed me an alarmed look. "Not that I'm all about his money or anything."

  "Do you know how much roughly he willed to you?"

  "Over a million in the bank, plus some miscellaneous property. The thing is, Gary was never a saver or good with finances. That was my thing, and being honest it was my parents' loan that got us this house. He was working as a handyman last time I knew. How does a handyman end up with one million dollars?"

  "Yeah," I said.

  Sonja knocked her head back against the headrest, releasing a hiss of pent-up frustration. "I'm starting to wish I never came down here, Hayden. Ignorance sometimes really is bliss."

  "No wonder I'm so happy."

  She made an unappreciative noise and thumped the steering wheel. "If he really is alive, where the hell is he?"

  "I'm guessing nowhere close by."

  "He's an Oath Keeper. He might not have been the greatest husband or provider, but he loved this country. Why would he go along with this? He complained to me all the time about the government using violent crime as an excuse for gun control."

  "I've been wondering the same thing."

  Sonja started the car and drove us out of the parking lot.

  "My offer for dinner is still open," I said.

  "I accept. Starting with a nice tall bottle of wine."

  "Not a problem. I'll be the designated driver."

  NOTHING LIKE being around someone who's drinking to feel awkwardly - painfully - sober. Sonja seemed to shine in the warm candlelit glow at our dinner table, her words flowing in bursts of wit and laughter, while I resided in the cool, stringent shadows of sobriety, nodding and smiling on cue as she offered anecdotes from her marriage, life as a single woman, and her worst and best clients in the "real estate game."

  Or maybe I was feeling painfully young. As beautiful and youthful as Sonja was, she had a lot more life under her belt. While my longest relationship was just over two years, she'd been married for nearly two decades. She'd worked half a dozen jobs and h
ad more than a dozen bosses, while I'd had only the Marine Corps and myself. She'd traveled to a ton of different countries before she'd even graduated high school, courtesy of her well-to-do parents. Aside from the Middle East and a couple of layovers in Germany, I was relatively homebound. I'd apparently had more women than she'd had men, but that didn't seem like a bragging point.

  Back at her house, I helped her out of the car. She wasn't falling-down drunk, but four glasses of wine made her eligible for some support as we navigated the front sidewalk and steps. I released her inside, and she hastened into her bedroom with the request that I make us some coffee. I heard a toilet flush and the shower gush on. I located a coffee machine on a kitchen counter and coffee in the nearby pantry.

  By the time Sonja emerged in a green terry cloth robe, her blond-brown hair hanging in damp waves over her shoulders, the coffee machine was happily burbling and spreading its aromatic gospel throughout the kitchen.

  "Mmmm," she said. "That smells heavenly."

  She dug out cups and poured for both of us. I followed her over to the kitchen table, and we sat facing each other.

  "Thank you for listening to me blab about myself all evening long," she said. "You're quite the considerate gentleman when you aren't lying through your teeth."

  "Ah, thanks." I tried not to grimace. "You have some funny stories."

  "Right. What guy doesn't love hearing a girl talk for hours about her ex?" She snorted. "That's usually what my girlfriends are for. But it's nice to talk to a man. It's been a while."

  I drank my coffee and basked in her man-appreciation.

  "I'm almost afraid to ask," she said, "but do you know what's next in this investigation?"

  "I'll talk to my, uh, boss and see what he says. My guess is that he'll be satisfied with knowing it was staged and won't need further details."

  "He'll be satisfied just hearing you talked to a couple of people without any solid evidence? He must be very trusting."

  "I guess he is." I hadn't thought of it like that – I took my trustworthiness to be a given – but it was true that Professor Markus and even his skeptical daughter didn't seem to doubt me in that way.

  "You talk to a couple guys, and he writes you a check," said Sonja. "Not a bad gig, as they say."

  "Plus I had to listen to you talk about your ex. I think I deserve hazard pay for that."

  Sonja sputtered up some coffee. She grabbed a napkin and dabbed her face.

  "Would I be too nosy if I asked, roughly, how much you're getting for this investigation?"

  "Well, uh, it's hard to say. I'm being paid for other investigations, too. It's kind of a package deal."

  "Really?" Her forehead furrowed. "What else are you investigating?"

  "Everything that seems off in this country is fair game. Things the don't quite add up and seem to imply something important "

  She raised an eyebrow. "That could be a lot of things."

  "It's a tough job, but..." I smiled and spread my hands.

  Sonja made a skeptical sound. "Could you give me an example of something that doesn't add up for you?"

  "I'm not sure I should go into a lot of detail, but speaking hypothetically, examples might be government detention centers, geoengineering, secret advanced technology, unexplained troop and military equipment movement, and gun control false flags like this one."

  "False flag." Sonja seemed to taste the word, and from her expression it was distinctly sour. "You're saying that my ex-husband and the others were hired to fake this shooting by...the government...so they could pass gun control legislation?"

  "Looks that way."

  "And if the present bill passes, you don't believe it will reduce the outbreaks of gun violence?"

  "I'm sure it will result in a large reduction in the theatrical productions of gun violence. Not to mention in really bad actors reading their lines on network news."

  She responded to my shit-eating smile with a scowl. "You really believe most – or all – of these shootings were fake?"

  "I'm not sure about the percentages, but I'm leaning in that direction. The patterns seem awfully consistent."

  "But why, Hayden? The great majority of gun owners – even people who own assault rifles - are law-abiding. Why would the government feel threatened by them enough to go through all the trouble and risk of faking these shootings?"

  "Right. It's not as if the Oath Keepers and John Q. Citizen are plotting to overthrow the government."

  "That's exactly what I'm saying!"

  "So what's your theory?" I asked.

  Sonja's smile eroded. She twisted her coffee cup in a circle, staring past me through the windows toward the darkness over the river.

  "I don't know. I never took the possibility seriously enough to develop a theory."

  A cool breeze entered through one of the open windows. Sonja tugged her robe around her shoulders with a small shiver. I reached across the table and covered her right hand.

  "I should probably get to bed," she said, sliding her hand free. She added with dry smile, "Since I'm now fully awake."

  "Yeah. And I should probably make my report."

  She rose, drawing her robe around herself again. "Thanks for dinner, Hayden, and for listening."

  "You're welcome. Thanks for all your help and putting me up here."

  "You know part of me wishes we'd never met, but I am glad to know the truth – or what seems to be the truth."

  I smiled and nodded. "I'm glad you feel that way. Goodnight, Sonja."

  "Goodnight."

  She walked away, that tight butt of hers performing an undulating dance within the robe. Damn. Women. As I once wrote on a high school history exam: Sean Connery knows. I don't .

  I broke out my laptop and distracted myself from thoughts of Sonja Hanson undressed and all alone in her bedroom by typing a message to Markus. As I waited for a reply, I skimmed the internet looking for any new shootings or news on the St. Paul incident. The net was atypically irenic. Calm before the storm?

  The Professor's reply came in:

  Well-done, Hayden. I believe we can count your Midwest sojourn as a complete success! In a matter of days, you've managed to achieve what we've failed to achieve in years. Let's hope the trend continues. You've learned what we need to know. For now, please feel free to return to your home and take a well-deserved break. We're working on your next project. Oh, and Lillith says hi and that she's surprised you managed without her. Inconceivable, isn't it?

  If Professor Markus was a smiley face kind of guy, I'm sure he would've appended one. I took a moment to soak up his praise. Somehow I'd managed to go two (and a half?) out of three instead of bombing as I'd feared. I'd obtained a decent lead in the Denver airport and scored solid hits here and in Sioux Falls. It was hard to believe no one else had accomplished the fairly modest feat of just talking to people and prying some useful information out of them. Not exactly the stuff of award-winning journalism. Maybe Markus's crew were a bunch of anti-social geeks? I shook my head.

  I switched off the lights and headed for the guest bedroom. I was way too wired for sleep, but after a day of deception and Minnesota humidity I could stand a long shower and then maybe catch up on some recreational reading.

  In my room, I stripped down, fiddled with the shower faucets until the water was just below steaming. I pumped soap and shampoo from the thoughtfully provided bottles and lathered up. I was washing suds out of my eyes when a muted click caused me to spin, nearly losing my footing. What I saw next nearly made me fall on my face: a gorgeous nude female body – flat of stomach and perky of breast – emerging from the mist, hair spilling over ivory-smooth shoulders.

  Sonja looked me over from head to toe and smiled. "You missed a spot."

  I WOKE up alone, and if not for the soreness in my groin – the kind of deep muscle ache you get after too many heavy sets of squats – I might've suspected it at all been a dream. That and the bed was a freaking mess, with half the sheets lay crumpled on the floor.
The bedside clock read a decadent 9:15 AM. It had been a hard day's night.

  I gathered my wits and remembered: my hands on her small but beautiful breasts, the tight wet caress as she rode me, our eyes locked as we cried out within seconds of each other. Then rinse and repeat twice more in different positions. Hold the rinse.

  I showered off my night's labors, dressed, and found a note and a house key on the kitchen table:

  Good morning! I have a couple of showings today, should be home mid to late-afternoon. Please feel free to hang around, if you like. Help yourself to the fridge. If you want to leave, that's okay, too. I hope I wasn't too forward last night. It was...I won't even try to describe it. I would like to see you later if you don't have to rush off. Here's my number.

  I whipped out my cell and added her number. Won't even try to describe it. Was that a good thing? "Too forward?" Forward was would probably be the last word she'd think if I'd showed up naked while she was in the shower. Not because of the double standard about promiscuity. No, that was the kind of thing that could get a dude accused of rape, especially if the girl had been drinking. Of such observations Mgtow was born.

  What the hell was wrong with me? I pushed aside the note and mentally slapped myself upside the head. I'd just gotten laid within an inch of my life, and I was babbling about double standards. Get a hold of yourself, Hayden, for fuck's sake. Stop overthinking everything. This was a time to rejoice. It's a tough job, but someone has to do it.

  I both grimaced at my foolishness as I dug some eggs and butter out of the fridge. I located pans and bread and fired up the coffee machine. I ate and drank while reading the Minneapolis Star Tribune online and dimly wondering why I didn't feel like rejoicing after such a pyrotechnic night. My problem, as usual, seemed to be that I didn't know what to make of a woman sleeping with me.

  I'd learned from a couple of brief affairs – perhaps "hookups" would be more accurate – that screwing you didn't mean, as traditionally assumed, that a girl was interested in you. My Marine buddies would be scratching their heads and wondering what my problem was. I guessed I had issues, because for some twisted reason I wanted sex to mean something. Well, shit, we're all warped in some way.