Black Ghost

by Freddie Villacci Jr

  “That’s usually an after-dinner thing.”

  “Bet you a Snickers bar it is.”

  “You’re on.”

  Caroline crossed her fingers hoping she could count on Bubba Taylor to entertain them with what she referred to as his “community outreach.” Since the assignment had begun, they hadn’t heard any conversations even remotely related to selling nuclear secrets to North Korea, which was the reason they were tapping the lobbyist’s telephone lines to begin with.

  She quickly logged onto the system from her laptop, then signaled to Mack, who was just fitting in an earpiece. He adjusted the earpiece and nodded.

  They listened quietly for over a minute.

  Caroline gave Mack a quizzical glance.

  He smirked and said, “It’s his girlfriend.”

  “I cannot believe this gross old man. Anyway, you owe me a Snickers.”

  “Not yet. Crap, he’s having better success than yesterday.”

  Caroline wrinkled her nose in silence.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, as he listened to the senator getting off. “You can’t tell me this bothers you anymore than—”

  “No. It’s just that I didn’t quit my dad’s firm to spy on fat cat lobbyists. If we don’t get a real assignment pretty soon, I’m seriously going to punch somebody in the face.”

  Mack nodded. “I feel you. I could be working on Wall Street making millions, driving a Ferrari, banging a different supermodel every week.”

  “A man with lofty ideals, I see. They’re not as fun as you’d think.”

  “Ferraris or supermodels?”

  Caroline pursed her lips and twitched an eyebrow at him. “What’s that pig doing now? I can’t bear to listen.”

  Mack blushed a little. “Um, ah, let’s just say she’s got a new toy... she’s calling it her little Bubba.”

  Caroline pulled her hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a hair tie. “Cheaters are horrible people,” she grumbled. “Serve him right if we called his wife—see how he’d like it if she left his ass and took half. Living in this basement and gathering dirt on gross old perverts is not what I signed up for. The honeymoon is over.” She paused and looked at him. “Maxwell? Hey, Caroline to Maxwell? You listening?”

  “Huh? Yeah, sorry. Honeymoon.”

  There was a call-waiting click on the line. Taylor cursed expressively and flipped the call over.

  “Pick up,” said Mack, motioning to her earpiece. “Another call coming in.”

  “Ugh. Don’t tell me, a threesome.”

  Mack stared at the table, his fingers dancing on his knee.

  “What do you want, Bryson?” Bubba Taylor asked.

  Caroline jammed away at the keyboard while listening; she looked to Mack excitedly. “This call originates in LA.”

  The call ended and Caroline snatched her gun and badge off the table. “Stay on the line in case he calls back. I’ve got the location of the cell—I can get there in five. Text me if the cell location changes.”

  “Are you crazy? We can’t just go into the field.”

  “I’ll just be passing through!” Caroline said as she ran out the door.

  4

  Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating an abandoned storage facility on Chicago’s South Side. The space was so long out of commercial use that the air had lost the chemical factory smell and was just musty now. A map of America was taped to the far wall with different U.S. cities circled, dates written next to them, and an assortment of other notes scribbled in the margins. Composite sketches of an African-American man covered the remaining walls, ranging from versions of the man in his early twenties right through to his late sixties. The room reeked of an obsessive, life-long manhunt. Hanging incongruously in the center of the space was a well-used punching bag.

  A skinny, forty-something man squirmed against the wall, staring bug-eyed at the man looming over him. Bic Green, three times as massive as the unfortunate squirmer and a good eight inches taller, stared through Terminator-style sunglasses at a worn-down photograph of the same dude plastered all over the wall. The photo was old; and the young man’s face was obscured, but not the eyes—they were deep, intense, and memorably piercing.

  “I’m not interested in you,” Bic said in a deep, unexpectedly soft voice. His eyes never left the photo; containing his rage almost left him shaking.

  “Good to hear, my brother,” the man said cautiously, releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  “I’m interested in a man you knew.”

  “Just give me a name, and I’ll tell you the dude’s Social Security number, where his momma’s crib is, and who he buys his rocks from.”

  Bic looked over to the punching bag.

  The sight of the name scrawled on the bag in faded black marker sent Bic back to his darkest place; all he could hear was a repeating, horrific hollow thud from an iron skillet connecting to a skull.

  Bic grabbed the man by the throat, still looking at the bag, still hearing the thud, repeated like a skipping record and jarring him each time with the sense-memory of pain.

  Trying to breathe, the punk squinted at the heavy bag, “Clarence?” he barely spoke.

  “Clarence Green. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The noises in his head faded. Bic released the man’s throat then gestured to the sketches on the wall.

  “Come on, man,” said the punk, “some old black dude in a pencil drawing?” Then he added, sarcastically. “Sure, yeah, I know him. He’s down on MLK Boulevard panning for his next dime bag.”

  With surprising speed, Bic punched the man in the gut. The impact sent the man into the wall.

  “There’s no way a scumbag like you didn’t cross his path.”

  “You have any idea how many old, washed-up brothers I’ve sold dope to?”

  “Not sold to,” Bic growled impatiently. “Someone you would have worked with.”

  The man whimpered, laboring to catch his breath. “You’ve got me all mixed up, man. I never had me a partner. Only thing a partner will do in my business is get you shot in the back.”

  “He would have come to Atlanta about nine years ago. You know the story; brutal addict turned into a ruthless drug kingpin.”

  That struck a nerve with the man. He swallowed hard. Bic reeled back like he was going to strike the punk again.

  “Arright, arright! Don’t hit me again! Listen, man, you don’t want to find that guy. He’s probably dead, the way he was going. But if he ain’t, trust me when I tell you, you don’t want to cross that man.”

  Bic pointed to the sketches. “Which one does he look like?”

  The man looked at each image, uncertain. But his eyes bulged in appreciable fear when his gaze finally returned to Bic’s face. “Look man, don’t hit me when I say this.”

  “Say it.”

  The punk winced as if about to be struck. “He looks like you!”

  Bic grabbed the man by the collars and threw him against the wall. “Where is he now?”

  “Argh, man! Listen, man, rumor had it he was high as a kite 24/7 and was obsessed with that crazy-ass black magic stuff—killin’ animals and Lord Jesus only knows what other type of messed up voodoo crap. You just know instinctively not to mess with that type of man, ya feel me?” The pusher fell silent for a moment, as if waiting for a response. He squirmed uncomfortably. “Listen, as fast as he took over the city, he left. Never heard from him again. He lit out like a ghost.”

  Like a ghost.

  Bic’s phone buzzed. He looked at the pusher, then motioned him to leave. The erstwhile captive didn’t need to be told twice. He hopped up like a rabbit, opened the garage door, and scurried away.

  Bic opened the file attached to the blank message. It was a list of ten names, with a million-dollar figure next to each name and a dossier of each person, packed full of faces, info, locations, and backgrounds.

&nb
sp; He deleted the message once he had the data, wondering if his new employers could secure their information as well as required, or if they were just too powerful to care.

  Not that it mattered. The rage was swelling within him once again.

  5

  Caroline woke with a start, her brow beaded with sweat, her breath caught in her throat. Panic froze the scream on her lips, paralyzing her.

  That dream again.

  She lay in bed next to Ashton in the master suite of his Malibu beachfront mansion, the silk sheets clinging to her clammy skin, soaked with sweat. She had woken up just past midnight Saturday morning, thankful for one small comfort—that the nightmare, riddled as it was with guilt and despair, didn’t rouse her with a scream. She didn’t want to have to explain it to him. Motes of the dream floated before her: a young girl raped, tortured, murdered, all while Caroline watched, helplessly rooted to her spot. The faceless man finished, laughed, and walked past her and out of sight. And when she turned her head back to the battered body, she saw the dead, pleading eyes and the purple handprints staining her body.

  She feared the dream. The guilt from it had driven her to walk away from her past life. It had worked. The new job was a distraction until earlier this evening when she walked in on two dead bodies. That scene had brought it all back.

  Carefully she squirmed out of bed, trying not to wake the soundly-sleeping man beside her. The heady smell of sex still lingered in the room and he would be in his deepest sleep, but still, she didn’t want to have to make excuses so she took care.

  The crashing waves outside provided excellent cover as she slipped from the bed and tiptoed around the room, collecting her clothes. As she dressed, she glanced at the handcuffs, broken lamp, and a black leather flogger on his nightstand.

  Usually these kinds of nights were a release, a way to get out her frustrations and keep the dark thoughts—and the dreams—at bay. She always felt embarrassed by her behavior in the light of innocent morning. She didn’t blame Ashton for what she felt. She had been seeing the successful CEO for a couple months now and had just realized what their relationship was built on: a business transaction of wants. Their lovemaking sessions were nothing more than gentle butchery. That just wasn’t who she was.

  Or was it? Was a lawyer who released a child killer entitled to love?

  She wouldn’t get the answer here. She left quickly, vowing—as she had many times before—that she would make penance for what she had done.

  6

  Later that night, Caroline drove around in her car, slowly patrolling the streets of one of the seediest parts of LA. The dry, desert smell of the Santa Ana winds masked the lingering smell of humanity trapped in the streets. She hadn’t done this in quite some time. The guilt hadn’t been this bad since she left her father’s law firm and joined the FBI.

  Doubts plagued her like the devil winds fanning a brushfire. Had she made a mistake becoming an FBI agent? Did she think she’d be able to handle seeing dead bodies? Clearly, she couldn’t, seeing Bryson and his attorney lying there in pools of blood, brain matter scattered everywhere, had brought the nightmares back. What to do now? If she didn’t make things right, her past error was almost certainly going to destroy her now as it did then.

  She looked from street corner to street corner. Gang signs were tagged on every conceivable surface. The thought came to her: Make it right again. She tapped the steering wheel anxiously, hunting for her release.

  “Ah, hello…” she said under her breath.

  In front of a convenience store with bars on the windows, a group of men—boys, really—stood in a circle, surrounding a young woman. The girl didn’t seem in danger, but it was well after midnight. A couple of the men had bottles covered in brown paper bags, and the group was passing around a joint.

  One of the men turned and picked up the girl. She immediately pried herself away, but the man was persistent in grabbing at her.

  Caroline pulled over and jumped out of her vehicle. “Take your hands off her,” she yelled, sprinting toward the group.

  “Who’s this snow bunny?” the tall muscular man with dreads asked.

  Caroline barged into the middle of the group toward the girl. “Are you okay?”

  “Huh?” said the girl. “What’s up with you, lady?”

  Caroline grabbed her arm, “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  The girl pulled her arm away. “Get off me, cavegirl. You trippin’?”

  Caroline looked at the four men glaring at her. They could easily jump her, but she held her ground. “This is no place for a young girl. Trust me, I know.”

  “I’m safer with my two brothers and cousin than with you, ya dumb b.”

  Embarrassment heated the tips of her ears, clouding out the jeers of the group.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know you were all family. Just make sure you stay safe, okay?” Caroline said, slinking away, her heart pounding and sinking fast.

  7

  At 8:00 AM sharp on Saturday morning, Caroline sat facing Harold Bender, Assistant Director of the FBI’s LA field operations, in his office, alone. Under the pretense of silencing her phone, she discreetly typed “WHERE R U?!” to Mack. She then returned her attention to A.D. Bender, who silently read their case report.

  Bender closed the manila folder and leaned back in his leather chair, which squeaked quietly with the motion. The permanent scowl the Assistant Director wore contrasted sharply with the smiling man in the framed presidential photo-ops behind him.

  “I’m impressed by this file,” he said, looking at her frankly across the expanse of his oak desk.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Bender took a sip of his coffee, letting the silence stretch between them. This was a test. He was waiting her out, knowing she was going to ask to be included. Rookies always filled in the silence.

  She wasted no time in stating confidently, “Sir, I think my partner and I should be assigned to this case.”

  “What partner?” He looked at her and smiled indulgently. “Listen, I realize you feel you’re ready to take on this case. But you’ll have to sit this one out.”

  “Sir, with all due respect—”

  “This is a high-profile murder, Agent Foxx. This isn’t some senator’s wank-off calls.”

  Caroline gritted her teeth.

  “There’ll be plenty of other opportunities, once you’re a little less green.”

  Controlling her irritation, she pressed on. “I understand, sir. But we’re the right agents for this. We found it. I mean, if it wasn’t for us—”

  “You caught the tail end of a telephone call, agent. You did your job. Now let those with proper experience handle it. That is how it works. You do your job, then the next person does their job. The matter’s closed. Now, if you don’t mind, I have another appointment.”

  He rose to walk her to the door. “I admire your tenacity, Agent Foxx. Keep it up. Seriously. You’ll go a long way in the agency.” He opened his office door and extended an arm to usher her out.

  She grimaced darkly and hoped it came off as a smile. She was about to make a final plea to Bender when she saw Mack, who smiled broadly and thrust his hand out to Bender as he strode up to the door.

  “Agent Maddox, so glad you could finally join us,” Bender said.

  “I know, sir, and I apologize. I was researching the case further this morning and lost track of time. I get like that sometimes when I’m chasing information.” He held up a file. “If I may?”

  Bender’s eyes flickered to the paperwork Mack held up but he didn’t take the bait, ignoring the file instead. “We just finished up here.”

  “No worries, sir. I just wanted to update you. We found a link between Taylor and Bryson—something beyond campaign contributions.”

  Not budging from his door, Bender responded, “They’re known to be friends.”

  “Yes, of course. But we uncovered an off-the-books series of overseas financi
al transactions. These two had more going on, and Agent Foxx and I think that might be why Bryson called him yesterday. I passed it along to your team. Your next case brief will have this info. Just wanted to keep you up to speed so your team didn’t know before you.”

  Bender exhaled sharply through his nose and held out his arm to usher the agents in.

  Caroline shot Mack a dagger-filled glare as the two junior agents followed the A.D. back into his office.

  Bender sighed. “Have you considered the possibility that the attack might have been directed at the lawyer? Bryson may have just been an innocent victim.”

  Mack held his ground. “You don’t believe that, do you, sir?”

  “You heard the tapes,” Caroline added. “They clearly reveal that Bryson was into something that he thought would get him killed.”

  “And here he’s dead,” Bender said curtly. “No, I don’t believe the lawyer was the target. At least not the sole one.”

  “There’s something out there linking Taylor to Bryson,” Mack said, pressing his point home, “and potentially the murderer’s identity, in those off-book transactions.”

  Bender glared at Mack. “And you think you’re the perfect person to dig it out, Maddox, is that it?”

  “Are you kidding? Too much pressure. But hey, anything we can do to help the team.”

  The Assistant Director looked back into the file and thought for a long moment. “Alright. You both can provide logistical support. But only research. You’ll be aiding Agents Moretto and Jackson in navigating the political nonsense. They’ll be doing the field work. All of it. Understood?”

  Mack stood up, not even bothering to conceal a rakish grin. “We won’t let you down, sir.”

  “Don’t.”

  8

  Caroline followed Mack out of the office, shutting the door quietly behind her. The mid-morning sunlight beamed in through the glass windows running the length of the hall. They walked past Bender’s assistant, Alexis, a hot twenty-something Californian beauty. Caroline caught the smile Mack gave her.