by Rachel Caine
“I made an appointment for us with Dr. Marks for this afternoon,” I remind him. “All of us. I can change it if—”
He’s already shaking his head. “No,” he says. “I think we need it. We might need it a lot. And Gwen? I would really rather that neither of us goes to jail right now. Understand?”
“Yes,” I say. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
I sound far more confident than I feel, but Sam gives me the incredible gift of letting me get away with it.
I kiss him, finish my coffee, and head off to shower.
I dress in a black knit pantsuit with a plain white button-down shirt and my nicest pair of flat shoes. My hair’s grown out to shoulder length; I tie it back in a plain, no-nonsense ponytail. No makeup. My shoulder holster goes on under the jacket, and while the tailoring isn’t perfect, it’s pretty decent. I look professional. And a wee bit intimidating.
I don’t dare take either of our cars, so I catch a ride-share to a random location; it drops me about six blocks away from the place where the package originated. In a hidden inner pocket of my pants are my necessary ID cards. I have cash. I have a disposable phone with emergency numbers preprogrammed in my left jacket pocket. I’m as unidentifiable as possible.
In the right pocket, I have the document I printed out, and that costume badge. Neither is perfect, but they look and feel solid. I put on my sunglasses and a black cap as I leave the ride-share and walk for a while, staring in store windows and just generally looking casual.
I make my way to the right block, and stay on the opposite side of the street. I’m watching the door of the mail establishment, counting the number of people entering and leaving. It doesn’t look busy. I see only two people in thirty minutes, and both are in and out in under five minutes each. It’s ten in the morning . . . after the theoretical morning rush, before the lunch hour crowd runs errands. Best guess, the place is empty.
I walk confidently to the door.
My eyes, hidden behind sunglasses, have to adjust to the dimmer light inside. It feels warm, and the smell of old cardboard makes me wrinkle my nose. There’s a long counter on one side, and some smaller standing tables for people to prepare packages.
I was right. Nobody home but the man behind the counter. He’s in his early twenties, tall and thin and gawky. He’s busy sorting out some packages, and says without looking up, “Hi, can I help you?”
I take the paper out and unfold it on the counter, and set the gold badge on top of it. “Detective Karen Fields,” I tell him. “That’s a warrant to view your video.”
That gets his attention. He looks up at me, and I smile. He won’t remember me, more than likely; he’ll remember the template. Black suit, white shirt, businesslike, professional ponytail. Gun visible under the jacket. Badge. But mostly the gun.
“Uh . . .” He stares at the fake warrant. “I should call my manager.”
“Okay,” I say. “But he’ll tell you that you have no choice but to cooperate. Look, I’m not here to ruin your day. I just need to access your video. I can do it from the cloud if you don’t want to give me computer access, but that means a bigger hassle. We’ll probably have to seize your computers and probably close you down for a while. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Dale.”
“Okay, Dale, call your boss. I don’t want you to get into any trouble.”
He has no idea what to do, but he picks up the phone and dials. There’s a hurried conversation. I’m so lucky the manager is out. He hangs up and says, “Okay, he says I can let you look. Uh, I need to keep a copy of that thing. The warrant.”
“Sure.” I take the entirely fraudulent warrant and go to the copier. I turn the paper to the blank side and make a copy. I wipe the panel with my sleeve, covering that with my body, and then fold up the blank paper that comes out, making sure to slide my fingers so that the prints won’t be clear on the surface. If they go to the extent of DNA, I’m screwed, but that’s not likely unless this goes completely, horribly sideways.
I staple it shut, and write Detective Karen Fields on the outside, with a phone number I make up on the spot. I slide my palm down the pen as I put it back in the holder to smear any prints I’ve just left.
Dale seems entirely satisfied. I put the original fake warrant and the badge I got at a costume shop in my pocket. “After you?”
He leads me down a short hallway to a claustrophobically small closet with a folding table, a folding chair, and a computer. He logs me in, and I’m looking at just one feed from the store that covers the door and the counter. “There you go,” he says. “What day?” I tell him, and he scrolls back to it.
“The guy I’m looking for came in early on Monday. Probably right when you opened up. He’d have paid for a courier service. You do that, right?”
“Yeah, not real common,” he says. “But we guarantee two-hour service in the metro area. Definitely narrows it down.” He scrolls to the opening time. While he’s still cooperative, I ask him to write down the cloud storage information so I can easily access it. He does.
I scroll as fast as I dare as he dithers behind me; he hears something in the other room and leaves, and I realize I’ve probably gone too far forward into the morning. I need to back up again and scrutinize every single person. There are a surprising number, but I didn’t recognize Sheryl Lansdowne in any of the faces. So I try again, focusing hard.
I nearly miss him anyway, because he’s just so . . . bland. A man with a manila envelope walks in. I can tell he’s white, medium build, nothing special about him in particular; he’s wearing blue jeans and a checked shirt and a ball cap. I’d pass him on the street and never even notice.
Like Melvin, I think, and shiver.
He talks to the guy behind the counter, gets a courier envelope, and opens it up. I freeze it, and the image isn’t fantastic, but I see a white blur. He’s dropping a letter into the package.
Melvin’s letter.
I take the thumb drive out of my pocket and copy the digital footage from the moment he comes into the shop to when he leaves. He hands over the credit card, and the clerk on duty doesn’t seem to even hesitate, or look at the name, before running it.
Why do that? Why not just pay cash? He’s exposing himself. He’s not that stupid.
Unless he wanted me to find this. Wanted me to be here.
I felt clever until now. And suddenly I feel exposed, and manipulated, and very worried.
While my unwitting coconspirator is gone, I flip back to today’s recording and make sure I erase my presence on entry, and at the counter. I’ll be sure to keep my face turned away now that I know where the camera is. I wipe the keyboard and mouse clean of fingerprints.
I’ve just finished when Dale comes back. “All done,” I say. “Thanks so much for your help.” I feel a little bad for him, but his boss can’t hold him accountable, not when Dale did his due diligence and called. Not his fault I’m leaving him holding a blank piece of paper and a fake phone number.
“Is he some kind of killer or something?” Dale asks. “If you can tell me, I mean.”
“I can’t, sorry,” I say. We come out of the hallway, and just as we do, my luck runs out. The bell dings as someone opens the door and walks inside.
I only get a glimpse of him, but my gut kicks hard, and I know it’s him. It’s him.
I’ve just locked eyes with the man who sent Melvin’s letter.
“Hey!” I shout.
He looks around, as if he’s not sure if I’m talking to him. I launch myself at him, and he backpedals, shocked, and then quickly turns and runs.
I hit the door hard with my shoulder and stumble outside, off balance. He went to the left. I see him twenty paces ahead of me already, but I start closing the distance fast. My vision narrows, red at the edges. He speeds up after glancing back, but I’m still gaining on him.
I reach out to grab his shirt, and I’m close enough my fingers brush fabric, but I can’t get a grip. He twists and pulls free, an
d momentum sends me stumbling desperately for balance. By the time I get myself right again, he’s around the corner. But I’m not about to give up. No way in hell. I put my whole self into it, tap into every reserve, and I gain on him again. Fast.
I catch up to him halfway down the side street. It’s not busy here, and I don’t hesitate. I grab him and drag him into the closest shadowed alleyway, out of sight of anyone who was watching us.
Then I slam him to the ground so hard his ball cap flies off and rolls unsteadily away. He lets out a breathless, injured “Hey!” but stops talking as I twist his arm up behind his back with my knee pinning his opposite side. He’s not going anywhere. “Ow!”
“You sent me a package on Monday,” I say. “Remember?”
“I what?” He turns his head, and I realize there’s something . . . wrong with it. For a second I think, Oh my God, I’ve crushed his skull, because it’s oddly flat under the blur of close-cut dark hair. But the scar that twists through the skin is old. Several years old. “Please, lady! Please don’t! Please don’t hurt me!”
He sounds panicked. And a little odd, a little off, his tone strangely flat. I start rethinking what I’m doing. Oh God. What if I’ve just made an awful mistake? I ease up a little, but I keep holding him down.
“My name is Gina Royal,” I say. “Did you send me a package on Monday? Yes or no.”
“Uh—yes?”
“You’re sure?”
“I guess so.”
“Why?”
“Because—because a guy paid me,” he says. “Cash, two hundred bucks, just to pick up an envelope and take it in and mail it. He even gave me a credit card to use. You want it? You can have it! Take my whole wallet!” He sounds scared. “I didn’t—I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? I didn’t mean to! I was just doing what he said! It was a job, just a job! I don’t work steady!”
Oh Jesus. What have I done? I’m still cynical enough to tug the wallet out of his back pocket and flip it open. His driver’s license says his name is Leonard Bay, and he lives here in Knoxville: 250 Beacon Street. I take a photo with my phone, then check the credit cards. He has only two. One’s a pay-as-you-go debit card, and the other is a credit card in the name of Penny Maguire. I slide it out, careful to hold just the sides, and slip that into my pocket. “Okay,” I tell him. “Relax. Relax. I’m sorry. Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?” I wince at the thought, because what I’ve done is most certainly assault, and even if I dump the fake warrant and badge, the damage is done because the clerk will be able to identify me and swear he saw me chase this poor man out of the store.
“I think I’m okay,” he says. He still sounds shaky. He’s not fighting me at all. “Are you going to take my money?”
“No,” I tell him, and put it back in his pocket. “I didn’t take anything but that credit card, and only because it isn’t yours. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“What can you tell me about the man who paid you?”
“I met him on the street,” he said. “I was—I’m going to be honest with you, ma’am, I was panhandling. I was low on my rent money. He said he’d pay me, and he did. I was worried about that credit card. I wasn’t going to use it for fun.”
I don’t think that last part is true, but I let it go. And after another hesitation, I let him go. I loosen my grip on his arm and lever my weight off him. He doesn’t move for a second or two, as if he’s afraid something worse is coming, and then he turns on his side to look at me. There’s a fresh scrape on his cheek, but other than that, he doesn’t seem hurt. Not much emotion in his face. Maybe, with that kind of frightful head injury, he’s lost a lot of ability to communicate expressions, even fear. I try to remember whether he looked scared before he started running. I don’t know.
“Okay, Leonard.”
“Len,” he says. “I like Len better.”
“Len,” I say, and nod. “Do you remember anything about that man? How tall he was, maybe? You can sit up if you want to. Do you need help?”
I offer a hand, and after a wary hesitation, he takes it. He sits up and scoots back until he’s sitting against the brick wall. It’s cool in these shadows, but I can see him clearly. We’re now blocked from street view by the dumpster, which eases my nerves. I crouch down to put us on a level. “What do you think?” I ask. “Was he tall or short?”
“On the tall side, I guess.”
“How about his skin color?”
“White,” he says immediately. “Kinda tanned, though.”
We go through the rest of the questions, and Len seems utterly calm by the end of it. His answers come slowly sometimes, but I never get the sense he’s lying. I’m sweating, aware that people could have called in the foot chase to the police, and I’m on the alert for any sound of sirens. So far, nothing. But I’m well aware of time pressure.
Unfortunately, for all my coaching, what I end up with is a completely unremarkable profile of a ghost. There’s nothing I learn from Len except for the credit card I’ve confiscated. And for the risk I just took, I’m not sure that was at all smart of me.
I help Len up, dust him off, and impulsively dig cash out of my pocket. “Here,” I tell him, and hand him two twenties. “If I hurt you at all, I’m very sorry; I never meant to do that. Are you sure you don’t need a doctor? I’m happy to take you to an ER, or a clinic, and pay . . .”
“No ma’am, I’m all right. I get knocked down by people a lot,” he says. The matter-of-fact tone makes me feel even sorrier for him. I pick up his ball cap, and he puts it on; it disguises the odd shape of his skull, the damage of his terrible injury. I do think about the man in the rented car, the white man in the ball cap . . . but this cap was battered and old even before our tussle. Well worn and dirty. I didn’t get the same impression from the man in the car.
It strikes me that the man in the car is MalusNavis, and Len . . . Len is his bait. Chosen for the likeness, especially the ball cap I’m sure he always wears.
Len holds out his hand. “Thank you for helping me. That was real nice of you.”
I didn’t help him. I chased him and knocked him down, and he’s thanking me for paying him guilt money. I’m honestly taken aback, and worried about his ability to cope in the world, especially with what must be a significant cognitive impairment. “Len, do you have a real place to stay? Like, a home?”
“I do,” he says. “When I want. I like to be out, though. It’s better. Most of the time it’s nice.” There’s a certain flatness to his affect and, at the same time, a kind of weird innocence. I think he means it. And that’s even more worrying.
“Please be careful. Len? If you see the man again, would you give me a call?” I hand him my card. It goes to a J. B. Hall number that forwards to my regular cell, anonymously.
“I will,” he says, and puts the card in his pocket. “You take care, ma’am.”
I can’t believe that the man I chased down on foot is somehow wishing me well. Or that he’s walking away with my cash in his pocket. This has all taken a very odd direction.
“Hey,” I call after Len. He stops at the end of the alley and turns toward me. “Why were you going back into the mail shop today?”
“I had another thing to mail for that man,” he says. “You want it? I should have said, I guess.”
I come forward as he holds out a thin white envelope. It has my old name and address on it. But it isn’t Melvin’s handwriting this time. I don’t recognize it at all.
“When did he give you this?” My tone’s sharp now. And Len shuffles back a step, sensing trouble. I try to moderate my tone. “I need to know this, Len. Please.”
“I saw him this morning,” he says. “Real early. Like, before dawn. I was staying the night at that mission over there. I was too tired to walk home.” He points vaguely off to the right, but I don’t know this part of town. “I saw him outside. Like he was waiting for me. He gave me more money for doing it, do you want that?” He starts fumbling in his pocket. I hold up a hand to st
op him.
“Keep it,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
He nods and moves off, shuffling at first, listing a little, then moving more smoothly. A glitchy machine remembering how to walk.
MalusNavis picked him because of the general resemblance. Because that would bring me here, eventually. He wanted to see if I was clever enough to find the card. And his damaged, innocent bait.
I open the envelope and pull out a letter. I instantly recognize the computer-printed prose.
I know you’re hunting me. Good. You and I were always meant to meet.
Everything that follows will be because of you. You have a chance to save the lives of the people you love, but that’s going to be your choice, not mine.
I’m your destiny, Gina Royal. I’m what you’ve earned.
I swallow hard. This feels . . . different. Cold, methodical, driven. His earlier email felt more like casual cruelty, but this is a change. A direct challenge. I can feel it all around me, like a fog.
I look the direction that Len has gone, but he’s out of sight. I don’t think there’s much else he can offer up, but I’m hopeful that he’ll call me if he’s approached again. I hope he stays safe; I have the ominous feeling that MalusNavis is very good at covering his tracks.
I head the direction of the shelter he indicated he stayed in last night. It’s four blocks down, in one of the very worst areas of Knoxville, and I stand out in my unofficial cop clothes like a neon sign. The area’s full of homeless people, grubby tents crowded together in clusters under bridges and in alleys. People give me a wide berth, avoiding looking at me at all. I look like the law to them. It’s more protection than I’d have if I’d come here just in my regular jeans-and-work-shirt look, but it doesn’t guarantee that someone won’t get aggressive. A significant portion of people out here are high, looking to get high, desperate to get high, or mentally ill. And cop or not, I look like I might have something better than what they have.
I’m glad it’s daylight. But I’m also aware that the storefronts around here are mostly empty except for the convenience store on the corner. And one look at their antiquated camera system tells me it’s not worth the try. I doubt it even works.
