Fatal Trust

by Todd M Johnson

The office was quieter than on a weekday, of course, yet she could hear she wasn’t the first one in. She rounded the corner.

  Chloe was coming out of Brook’s office, shutting the door carefully behind her.

  “Hey,” Brook called out. Chloe stopped and turned.

  “Hi, Brook!” Chloe greeted her with excited eyes, as though she had no clue why Brook was glaring. “You haven’t heard?”

  Her anger slid away as Brook sensed a new train coming at her. “Heard what?”

  “That guy you and Eldon interviewed late yesterday? Ian Wells? You gave him the usual instruction not to leave town without checking in with our office, right?”

  “Yes, it’s routine,” Brook said.

  “Well, we got a tip on voicemail last night that he’s left. Somebody called to say Wells was seen driving out of the Twin Cities.”

  She wanted to wipe the clerk’s smirk from her face. “A tip from who?”

  Chloe shrugged. “It was anonymous. Anyway, Eldon’s got people trying to figure out if it’s true and where Wells might have gone. The message said the caller would get back to us with more information.”

  “Who’d give an anonymous tip about something like that?” Brook asked—wanting to add, Like who would give a tip about stiff twenties being deposited in a bank?

  Chloe shrugged again. “Who knows? But they’re going to check it out.”

  Brook nodded, suddenly deflated. “Okay. Keep me in the loop. Really, I mean it.”

  The law clerk flashed one of her broad smiles. “Of course, Brook. You’ll know whatever I know.”

  Muffled voices seeped through the locked wooden door in front of Ian. The voices were all he had, as he had no way to get to the other side. Fear filled him. His mother was on the other side of the door, and he desperately needed to rejoin her.

  He wandered down a hall to a room where a group of adults towered over and around him, talking and drinking, paying him no attention. Couldn’t they see he needed to get back into the bedroom?

  Across the room stood a young girl with red bangs. She looked straight at Ian. She raised a hand and crooked a finger in invitation.

  He walked toward her, weaving through the grown-ups to her side, then followed in her wake as she led him down another hallway. They reached a door, where she raised the same finger to her lips before turning the knob and going in.

  It was a dark room with glass aquarium walls floor to ceiling, the panels filled with whales and dolphins swimming in shadowy circles about them. In front of the panels was a forest of bamboo, creaking and swaying in an unfelt breeze. Beneath his feet was a plush forest floor.

  If only for an instant, Ian wanted to watch the sea life swimming by. But the girl was leading him at a tiptoe pace across the floor to the double doors of a closet. With a gentle pull, she drew the doors open.

  Moths came rushing out in a fury like a flight of escaping bats. Then they were gone, leaving behind a row of suits and dresses hanging above a small wall of neatly stacked shoe boxes.

  Ian approached. The clothing and shoe boxes had been parted to create a path to another wall. In that wall was a thin crack through which light filtered from somewhere beyond.

  The girl motioned Ian closer and stepped aside to make way. Ian obeyed, leaning forward to look through the crack to the other side.

  He was seeing into a room. It was the one behind the locked door. Young Rory Doyle sat on the bed in the middle of the room. Sean Callahan leaned against a far wall beside the old man, who was seated with a hat in his lap. A fourth man stood nearby, the one by the pool. Instinctively he knew it was Ed McMartin.

  His mother was nowhere to be seen.

  Voices from the room twisted and twined like a choir’s harmony, no single voice distinguishable. “Rory’s fault . . . When do we distribute . . . Danger . . .”

  The choir stopped, and Ian heard a voice he knew was the old man’s. “A while longer.”

  The chorus renewed, rushed and frantic, until the old man spoke again, silencing them all once more.

  The words were less distinct this time, but impressions flowed to Ian like flavors washing over his tongue. Of trust. Or a trust. Of money in a safe. Or until it was safe. Of paintings or a painting. Of choices or one choice.

  And over it all, a command of patience.

  Ian blinked. In that instant the room emptied. All except for the old man with the hat, and now his mother standing nearby, the skin of her face rich and young.

  Desperate to join her, Ian strained to focus on each word and gesture.

  “We won’t take the money.” It was his mother.

  The old man raised his hands as he spoke. “They won’t trust you then,” he said. Then he added, “There’s only one painting left.”

  More impressions streamed through the crack. The secrecy of the remaining painting. A year of significance. That the man was entrusting something to his mother’s care.

  Ian blinked.

  And his mother was gone. In her place, Sean Callahan stood before the old man, hands deep in his pockets. They were discussing Rory. “Don’t harm him,” the old man was saying. “No matter what, you must never harm him.” Callahan acknowledged the command with a dip of his head.

  Their conversation then shifted to “Connor and Martha.”

  “Watch them” was all the old man said this time as he reached down to tie his shoe.

  Ian was about to turn away when movement pulled his attention to the floor near the bed.

  And he saw it. He saw it.

  Ian pivoted away from the crack toward the bamboo-filled room behind him to ask the girl about what he’d just seen. As he twisted, his foot caught on something and he began falling onto the shoe boxes, rattling them like tenpins across the ground. He landed and instantly struggled to get to his hands and knees, but the forest floor had become ice and his hands and feet slid in all directions.

  Then he was rising, rising, rising—off the floor and into the air. Staring into the face of Sean Callahan.

  ———

  Ian sat up from the hard bed, feeling as if he hadn’t moved for hours. His shirt was wet. The dream was fading. He began an unsettling slide back to reality.

  The images were mostly gone—except for a single painting. A year associated with the painting. And something he’d seen before a fall that he could no longer recall.

  Emotions filled the place of the lost images. Panic. Dread. Anger. His youthful mother.

  Danger.

  He took several deep breaths. The emotions congealed into one. A powerful compulsion to reach Martha.

  Ignoring a stab of pain in his neck, Ian rose from the bed. The shoe box with the weapon inside still sat on the bedside table. He opened it, removed the gun and slipped it in his belt, then walked to the open bedroom window.

  Orange pulses of light skipped across the surface of the lake below, visible through the trees. Sunset. He’d slept the whole day away. He went downstairs to the front door and out into the dusky yard. The driveway was empty. Of course it was, he recalled. He’d given Willy his keys and let him drive away. And him without a phone.

  Great move. He returned to the house and searched the place for a phone. There was none.

  He had to get a ride to his mom’s home and check on her, make sure she was safe. Afterward he’d follow through on his plan to extricate himself from all of this.

  He was returning to the front door when he felt the weight of the gun at his back. He had no registration for it—or a permit to carry any handgun, for that matter. All he needed now was to get arrested on a weapons charge.

  Ian walked around the outside of the house to the back, where it faced the lake. The home was a walkout, the basement opening onto a wooded slope topped by a stairway that led down to a beach. Ian took the stairs, moving toward the water below.

  Near the base of the stairs, a short dock reached out over the lake, its surface stirred by a soft breeze. A wood-chip trail followed the water’s edge toward the neighboring
home about fifty yards away.

  Ian began walking the trail.

  Half the distance to the next house, he stopped. A rotted log lay just outside the trail in the shelter of the woods amid taller grass. Ian stepped over it. The log was cracked on the side opposite the trail, hollowed inside. Ian wedged the gun into the space and covered the place with brush.

  He rose just as a flock of mallards launched themselves off the lake’s black surface into the darkening sky, startling him. The birds lifted higher, one letting out a loud call as they slid into formation and lofted away. Ian watched, his worry accelerating about his mom. He wished he could launch himself into similar flight to Minneapolis.

  He hurried back up the trail.

  At the top of the stairs, he heard the sound of gravel popping under approaching tires. Willy must be wrong, he thought, momentarily panicked. The owners must be returning to the house after all. Either that or Willy had come back for him.

  Calm down, he told himself. If it was the owners, maybe he could give some kind of explanation and then borrow a cellphone to arrange a ride into Minneapolis.

  Ian walked to the top of the driveway and waited.

  A gray car came around the nearest curve, its headlights off. In the growing darkness, the face of the driver was invisible. The car drew near and parked. A large, familiar figure stepped out.

  The man scratched his neck with one hand as he strode purposefully toward Ian. His other hand reached into his belt.

  It was Sean Callahan’s assistant, the Marine. In the instant of Ian’s recognition, the man raised the biggest handgun Ian had ever seen and pointed it at his face.

  “My man!” the Marine said. “You remember me, right? Aaron Ziegler? Well, I am so glad to have found you here, son. So glad. And let me tell you, Sean will be too.”

  33

  SATURDAY, JUNE 9

  10:13 P.M.

  MEDICINE LAKE

  SUBURBAN MINNEAPOLIS

  Seated on the porch, Ian licked dry lips. His eyes flickered to the gun that rested, along with a cellphone, on the Marine’s lap. “I don’t understand,” Ian said again. “Just tell me why you’re here.”

  The Marine gestured toward his phone. “Sorry. Can’t say anything until Sean texts me back.”

  Just seconds later, the phone in his lap buzzed. Aaron picked it up and read the screen. “Okay,” he said. “I guess we’re headin’ to St. Paul.”

  “Is this about the money?” Ian asked. “Because I don’t want it. I’m not going to represent the trust anymore. I’m happy to transfer it back to Callahan.”

  “A little late for that, don’t you think?”

  Ian stiffened. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, that might have been a possibility before you transferred the money out of your bank account to who knows where.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Aaron chortled. “Dude, Sean’s not an idiot. That banker gave him a way to keep an eye on the account. No access, but a portal to watch money going in and out. Sean knew the minute you took the money out of your bank account last night. And your car’s been lowjacked since he hired you. You think he’d put nine million into your hands and not keep an eye on you? We found the car in northeast Minneapolis parked outside some apartment building, then backtracked the signal here. You should’ve run farther and faster, my man.”

  “I didn’t know—I don’t know—that the money’s gone,” Ian declared. “And I wasn’t running away. I’m here because some guys, who I think are working for Rory, attacked me in Minneapolis last night. There was even a shooting. I came up here to get away for the night and decide what to do next.”

  Aaron leaned back, his incredulity a neon sign. “To recap, then, Counselor: the trust money disappears, you end up in a strange house half an hour away from home, and your best excuse is you were attacked last night in Minneapolis. Well, you’ve sure got me convinced. Now you can try it out on Sean. Get up. We’ve gotta go.”

  The image of Callahan’s tanned and timeworn face came back to Ian, him seated in his shadowy living room with the gaudy chairs—looking at Ian the way his assistant was now as he interrogated Ian in his Irish accent. It was the last place Ian wanted to go, especially if the money really was gone.

  “If I was running,” Ian said, not moving, “why would I stop half an hour from home? Wouldn’t I be in Canada by now? Or Mexico? And where’s my bag? Did my plan fail to include a toothbrush?”

  The Marine shrugged. “Maybe you travel light.”

  “No, really, think about this,” Ian said firmly. “If I’m the lawyer with a plan, you think this is the best explanation I could come up with? I mean—” he stopped himself—“wait. There’s somebody who can prove what I’m telling you is true.”

  “Educate me.”

  “She’s . . . she’s with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. The shooting last night, I think one of the shooters got hit. My friend could confirm it. It would be a stomach wound. She’ll confirm a gunshot victim last night.”

  Aaron smirked again. “Not very likely we’re calling her.”

  “No,” Ian pressed, still eyeing the gun. “Put the pieces together. What I’m telling you is true. You need to know what Rory’s doing here, and she can confirm it. We can make the call on your cell. Put it on speaker. You’ll have your gun pointed at me. I won’t say a word about you and this.”

  The Marine stared at him before glancing at his watch. “Stay put.”

  Aaron stepped inside the house, out of earshot but with the barrel never deviating from Ian. He made a single call. After a few moments, he returned to the porch.

  “Alright. Sean says one call—and I’m to do your kneecap if you say a word out of order. So tell me the number.”

  Ian recited Brook’s cell number from memory. Aaron set the phone down onto a table between them, on speaker. After two rings, Brook’s voice answered.

  “Yes?”

  Ian leaned closer to the phone. “Brook, it’s me.”

  “Ian. Where are you? And what are you doing calling me? Whose phone is this? You know better than this. I thought you’d come to my apartment last night. We should only talk in person. But we’ve got to talk.”

  “Slow down, Brook,” Ian said, surprised at how calm his voice came out. “It’s okay. I’ve only got a minute now. We can talk more soon. But I need you to confirm something for me. Can you check to see if there was a reported shooting last night? In northeast Minneapolis. After midnight.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A shooting. Rory Doyle was supposed to meet me at a bar. A couple of guys came instead. They slit my tire, beat me up, then followed me onto the street. Before they caught me, Willy Dryer shot one of them.”

  “Willy Dryer? Your client? Shot somebody? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you okay?”

  Ian took a deep breath. “Brook, please. I’m okay. But I need you to check Minneapolis police reports for any shootings last night, plus any gunshot victims reporting to a hospital. Probably HCMC. A shot in the abdomen.”

  The line went silent. Ian looked up at the smirk that had returned to Aaron’s face.

  “There were no shooting reports in that area last night,” Brook’s voice returned. “No shooting victims at the hospitals that I can see. Ian, what’s going on?”

  Aaron leaned his gun across the table, signaling for Ian to end the call.

  His hope plummeted. “I’ve gotta go, Brook,” he said. “We’ll talk later.”

  “Wait,” she came back. “There was a call to our office. Somebody said you’d ignored my instructions from the interrogation and left town. An anonymous tip. You were just a witness before, but with this news you’re becoming a target. Eldon’s running with this thing, and a clerk on steroids is elbowing in between him and me, so it’s possible more has happened and I haven’t been told. If so, they could be watching for your car.”

  Ian noticed Aaron’s expression had grown stone-c
old. He turned back to the phone. “Thanks, Brook.” He took a quick glance at Aaron, then rushed on. “Believe me, I didn’t do anything wrong. I need your help to figure this out. And you’ve got to get Mom to someplace safe, away from the house. I think she’s in danger. Call Katie—”

  Aaron grabbed the phone and killed the call. “Which kneecap are you less fond of?” he said, aiming the gun.

  Through the windows facing the front lawn came a faint flash of headlights. They grew gradually brighter, accompanied by red-and-blue colors rolling across the walls of the room.

  Aaron peered out at the lights, then back at Ian. He pointed the gun toward the stairs leading from the porch to the ground below. “Move it,” the Marine commanded. “Now.”

  10:17 P.M.

  MARTHA WELLS RESIDENCE

  LYNNHURST NEIGHBORHOOD, MINNEAPOLIS

  Katie pulled her car into the driveway of Martha’s house, disappointed to find Ian’s car not there. Where had he gone? She had to get to her boss before this strange client found out about the missing money, and without drawing the U.S. Attorney’s Office down on them.

  She cut the lights, plunging the neighborhood into blackness. Only a streetlight half a block away and the waning moon just above the horizon illuminated the house. Getting out of the car, she walked to the garage door and peered through the glass at eye level. Ian’s car wasn’t inside.

  She looked to the house. Martha must be asleep at this hour. She didn’t want to wake her or the neighborhood, but she’d vowed this time to camp out here until Ian came or called.

  Was there any chance Ian could be here, even without his car? Stranger things were happening, and it wouldn’t be hard to check the kitchen or knock on the window of his old room.

  Skirting the garage, she passed by the vegetable garden on her way to the back deck, feeling the dewy grass on her ankles. She walked quietly up the stairs. No lights came from the kitchen or living room. If she remembered correctly, Ian’s window was located at the far end of the deck.

  Something crunched beneath her feet. Katie stopped and looked down. Nothing was visible in the faint light. She looked up at the patio door. A thin seam bisected the glass near the bottom. She moved closer. Deep gouges marked where the patio door had been pried, cracking the glass. She traced the door’s edge with her hand. It was still ajar.