by A J Rivers
"People are starting to pay more attention to what I'm doing," he mutters as he sits back down. "I have to be careful."
"What's in the envelope?"
His fingers dip into the envelope and pulls out a card. He turns it around to face the camera.
"Happy Sweet Sixteen," I whisper.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Anson
Five months earlier…
He had no idea how long it would be before his name was really his again. That was one of the things he thought about as the months crept on, and his plans took form in his mind. There was more, of course, but some days, when the details weren’t falling into place when he was waiting for something to happen, he thought about his name. Sometimes he said it to himself, feeling it fill his mouth and fall through his teeth like hot tea. Sometimes he pretended to hear someone else calling him by it. It had been a long time since he heard it and he didn’t know how he would feel to hear it again.
When he first crossed the path of Lotan, Anson was the only name he’d ever known. He didn’t grow up with a nickname, something shortened or made more approachable with a ‘y’. His father didn’t even call him Sonny. The name he was born into was the name he was called. But Lotan changed that. He welcomed him. He seemed to appreciate him. He showed him a world Anson never knew. Taught him things he could never have imagined. Lotan helped him shed the image of the world he had been holding onto throughout his life, so he could step into a greater, more powerful, more impactful existence. And he gave him a new name.
Anson cherished that name. It meant everything to him to be seen as worthy. As valuable enough to earn the name he was given. He saw it as so much more than a name. It was a title. An acknowledgement of who he was among the ranks.
At first, he felt like part of a wave, flowing together, strong and mighty. There was the crest, peaking at the top and turning to virulent foam before the crash; and there was the trough, the unseen and sometimes overlooked power. But it was all one. Over time, that changed. He went from part of the wave to dissolved salt and now realized he was nothing but a grain of sand on the beach.
The wave was still there, of course. Leviathan dwelled in the brutal force of the waves. There could be no Leviathan without that force. But Anson was no longer a part of it. Most of them weren’t. They were sand scattered on the beach, waiting for the touch of water. That's when he first started to think of his name again. It didn't feel as much like he was given something, but rather that something was taken away.
Maybe that's when he started thinking more about Emma. She gave people back their names. That stood out to him. He watched her face on the news, read about her in every way he could. Any time she was mentioned, he absorbed it because he needed to understand. He needed some insight into who she was and why she mattered so much.
She didn't like the flash of the journalists’ cameras. She didn't want the microphones in her face. Not on the news and not in court. Even when she was standing there, stoic and in control, it was obvious. She didn't want them looking at her, attempting to dismantle her so they could lay out what she did in neat little pieces, consumable bites easy for the public. In that way, she was so much like Lotan.
There are things that shouldn't be easy. Life shouldn't always come in the simplest form. That's what leads to complacency and mediocrity. It's what leads to being trampled.
Anson believed in those things. He felt them within him like they were stitched into the fibers that crafted him. He had never put voice to them until he met Lotan. Never knew the words. But he gave himself completely once he understood.
Until he realized that would never be enough. He would try. He would push. He would do everything he thought he could, and it would still never be enough. Because she's the only one who ever mattered. The only one Lotan never renamed.
Emma gave people their names back. Even when it was only to etch them into their gravestones, she made sure their names were known. She spoke them and wrote them. She kept them a part of the universe so they couldn't be forgotten again. Hearing that is what truly made Anson understand. It's what changed everything for him.
He didn't want Emma to give him his name back. He didn't need her to. He would have it for himself. But she was the reason he didn't know if he would ever be able to feel fully comfortable with just one name again. There wasn't a single part of him, a single thought that strayed away from what he believed. He wasn't drawn into Leviathan because of anything less than true and unwavering belief in the mission. But that wasn't the way it was anymore. The mission fell out of favor, and she took its place as his treasured focus. Anson could never feel like he did before Lotan came along. He was changed, fully, and irreparably. He also wasn't a grain of sand.
Soon he would rise. Thoughts that had existed only in the back of his mind for so long washed up to the surface. He couldn't ignore them anymore. His quiet work had built what would become the opening salvo of his legacy. It was nearly complete. Just a few more pieces, a few more adjustments, and he would restore the mission. Disrupt the god of chaos.
The sound of his computer brought him away from the pieces of metal that pressed into his fingers, drawing drops of blood from his skin like they were getting their first tastes. That metal would soon have so much more. He looked at the screen, and a smile twitched at his lips. The message was just what he hoped it would be. She thought she was brilliant, and he would tell her she was. She thought the ideas were hers, and he would praise her for them.
Anything to get her there.
Lotan had plans. Anson had better ones. Lotan was sending a wave. Anson would create a tsunami.
He was tired of toiling away in the background, having no say. No glory. Bowing down to a man who chased shadows and corpses for nearly twenty years.
Now it was his turn.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Now
“Happy Sweet Sixteen,” I say again. “I don't understand. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Sam looks at the camera and shakes his head.
"I don't know."
"What's inside? Does it say anything?" I ask.
"Emma," Thomas starts from beside me. "I can't stay here for much longer. The rest of the staff is going to notice."
I look at him, feeling almost like I'd forgotten he was even there.
"You're right. You don't want anything to seem strange or call any attention to what's going on. We need to keep things as normal as possible. Go back and do whatever it is you need to be doing. But make sure no one is suspicious of you and no one tries to come back here. You understand?”
“I understand,” he nods. “Are you going to stay here?”
The breath slides out of my lungs, and I realize I don't really have an answer for that.
“I can't stay here for the entire time,” I tell him. “I have to try to figure out what these clues mean. That means looking around the train. But we can't risk anyone coming in here and finding the body. No security. No police. It's far too dangerous to call his bluff. This guy keeps his promises, and the last thing we want to know is just how fast he can do it.”
“Until we are almost at the station, there's no reason for anybody to come into these cars. They have already been cleaned and are just waiting for the next passengers.”
“Then why did you come back here?” I ask. “If nobody's supposed to be in these cars, why did you end up back here to find me?”
“Exactly what you just said. To find you. You were roaming up and down the cars asking about Mr. Jones, and I had the feeling something was going on.”
“Well, we have to make sure no one else has that feeling. I will check back in here as often as I can, but my top priority is figuring out where he's leading me next, so I can try to stop whatever he has planned. If I need your help, I'll come find you.”
Thomas nods and leaves the car. I watch him, shaking my head as he goes.
“What is it?” Sam asks.
“There's something about
him,” I mutter, making sure to not be overheard. “I don't know what it is, but there's something he isn't being upfront about.”
“You don't think he's the one who did this, do you?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “But there's something about the way he was talking about that other passenger that's bothering me.”
“He just said that he doesn't know him very well, but sees him on the train pretty often,” Sam tells me.
“Right, but he was very quick to defend him. Not just to say he didn't think he would have anything to do with it, but to intensely deny it. There's no reason to think Mr. Jones killed this man or could be responsible for the clues. I don't know him, and I have no reason to believe he knows me. He sat there beside me and didn't acknowledge me. Whoever wrote these notes knows me.”
“Then why are you concerned about Thomas telling you he has nothing to do with it?” Sam asks.
“Because I never mentioned thinking he could have murdered this man. All I did was point out he stood up and walked away from his seat while we were still delayed and didn't come back.”
“Like he could be the next one,” Sam says, realizing what I'm trying to get across.
“Exactly. But Thomas jumped right into insisting he couldn’t have anything to do with this. Like it wasn't a surprise to him that he wasn't in his seat, kind of like he would have no reason to be worried about him,” I say. “And for him to chase me down just because of that man in the first place? Very odd.”
“What do you think that means?” he asks.
“I don't know. But it's something to keep in mind. Right now, I need to concentrate on that card and what it means. Is there anything written inside?”
Sam opens the card and shows it to me.
"'Check your list'," he reads. "'Can you catch me?'"
"Check my list. What list? What could that be talking about?" I ask.
"It's a birthday card, so maybe it has something to do with that. A guest list, like for a party?"
"The passenger list? I'll see if Thomas has access to it and could give it to me. But it can't be that simple. What do we think is going to happen? We'll look at the list, and one of the names will be highlighted, and it'll say caught me? I want to look up with the names, but there are plenty of other ways he could have led us to a passenger list. And it's not my list. It says to check my list. Why would he choose a birthday card?” I ask.
“You said somebody was at your seat. They took your computer out of its bag and put it on the table,” Sam says.
“Yes. That's how I found the sticky note for the seat where this man was sitting,” I tell him.
“Did you look anywhere else?” he asks. “Could whoever it was who took the computer out have left something else at your seat?”
“It was a woman,” I say. “I haven't thought about that until you just said that. The guy sitting a couple of rows behind me said he saw a woman at my seat. Don't you remember me telling you that? Blonde hair and a blue sweater. Apparently similar enough to me that he didn't think anything of seeing her there.”
“So, it's possible we are not looking for a man. We're looking for a woman,” Sam notes.
“Or two people,” I say. “This whole time we've been wondering how this person could have gone back and forth between the trains, but what if they didn't? One on your train, one on mine.”
"Can you think of anyone you know who fits that description? Someone who might want to do something like this?"
"No. But I'm going to see if I can find out more about her. I'll check around my seat and talk to that man again. I need you to do something for me," I say.
"What is it?"
"Go on the Feathered Nest website and look up the handyman named Clancy. He's probably the only one listed. He works for the town managing their buildings and properties," I say.
"Alright. Why am I calling him?" Sam asks.
"Tell him you are calling for me, and that I want him to go check in on Marren for me."
"Okay."
"I just want to make sure she's alright. She obviously didn't send me that letter, and I want to make sure she's safe," I explain. "I can't call LaRoche again. No police, remember? Just ask him to check on her, and I'll go check my seat. I'll talk to you soon."
The call ends, and the time glows on my screen. My chest burns with the urgency creeping up. We're getting closer and closer to the station, and I have no clue what else I'll have to unravel. I glance down at myself to make sure my gun is concealed, and I haven't picked up any traces of blood. Satisfied, I leave my suitcase where it is, sling my backpack on my back again, and walk out into the first empty car.
I know it's just my imagination, but this car feels brighter, and there seems to be more air in it than the last car. I've gotten so used to the smell of blood that the full breaths of cold, filtered air seem cleansing as they draw through my lungs and take away the heaviness. My expression changes with each step. I force my shoulders down. I release the tension in my muscles. My eyes open slightly to stop my eyebrows from furrowing. It's a systematic change, my concentration fully on making each feature look relaxed and at ease so that when I step out in front of people again, they won't notice me moving among them.
Act like you belong. No one will question you. It's the simplest tip of being undercover, but sometimes the most difficult. When you already feel like you don't belong or are standing out in a situation, it's easy to slip. You start to exaggerate behaviors meant to help you blend in or look anxious and give yourself away. That's one of the first ways I can always tell an agent who has never gone undercover.
But I'm used to it. I've lent my existence to many different personas over the years and, with few exceptions, managed to sink into those lives. Even more importantly, I've found my way back to myself after each and every one of them.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The cars seem largely unchanged as I walk back through them toward my seat. I notice Thomas ahead of me, leaned over as a passenger talks to him. His eyes slide over to me, but his expression doesn't change, and he turns his attention back to the woman. She has a map in her hand and seems extremely concerned. I glance down at the blue-eyed man as I walk past his seat toward mine. He’s still hunched over his sketch pad, this time smudging the lines of a drawing with his thumb. The position of his arm and the angle of his head blocks most of the drawing, so I can't see what it is.
The seat where I was sitting and the one next to it are still empty. A quick glance across the aisle proves that seat is as well. Trying not to call any attention to myself, I quickly scan the area. I take my time pulling my backpack off my back and setting it on the seat, so I have a few extra seconds to look at the surrounding rows and the floor beneath the seats in front of me. I don't notice anything tucked there, and I reach up to open the overhead compartment.
Just like the one I saw over the video call with Sam, the overhead compartment is empty. Grateful for my height, I rise up on the balls of my feet to get a better look inside. Glancing both ways, I don't see anything until several rows ahead. I sit down and scan the backs of the seats, paying close attention to every inch of the blue and gray fabric.
"Check your list," I whisper to myself.
Several pieces of paper stick out of the mesh pouch on the seat in front of me, and I pull them out. I sift through each of them, looking for anything written on them or stuck to them. It's nothing but the usual advertisements and magazines stuffed there to give passengers hungry to fill the long hours of a train trip with any type of distraction.
I glance up in time to see Thomas step away from the woman and start his slow stroll down the aisle. Pulling open my bag, I take out a small notepad and pen I always bring with me. I scribble a note asking Thomas for the passenger list and fold it up, setting it on the arm of the seat where I hope he'll see it. My phone rings as I toss the pen and pad away. I'm expecting to see Sam's name on the screen, but it's Bellamy.
"Hey, B," I say.
"Hey, you alr
ight?" she asks.
I briefly consider telling her what's happening, but I stop myself. As unorthodox as this situation is, I have to consider it an investigation. Sam is involved by default, but the fewer people who know what's happening, the less the chance of it being compromised. And for all I know, our suspect could be listening in very intently. If I let anyone know, I’d, well, blow it.
"I'm fine. Just on the train."
"Eric said you wanted me to look into that guy's profile for you," she says, and the conversation rushes back.
"Right," I say, keeping my voice low. I still don’t want to draw too much attention to myself. "I thought you might be able to look over it and point out anything that strikes you as odd or unusual. I know you're not going to be able to go as in-depth as usual, but just a glance would help. I mean, for all I know, it's a completely legit profile, and I'm just missing the deeper meaning of it."
“No,” she says. “I looked at it, and I think it's strange, too. Obviously, I've seen plenty of people who think they're really smart or creative and want to share that with all of humanity. But that's not the vibe I'm getting from this. It's too… manufactured. I'm not sure if that's exactly the right word, but it's the best way I can describe it. There's weird artsy bohemian stuff, and then there's someone being too strategic. That's what this profile feels like to me. It's trying too hard. But still, that might just be the person. They've seen a lot of profiles they think are artsy or impressive and are trying to emulate them. They want to create a particular feel but don't quite have the nuance down. Or it could be intentional.”
This is far from the first time Bellamy has delved into social media as part of an investigation. Part of her consultancy work for the Bureau includes social media forensics, using technology, and a person's use of platforms to better understand them as individuals. This is often an extremely effective way to bring context to crimes or find missing pieces that bring together a far larger picture of a person and their involvement in people and events around them. I'm always amazed by how much she's able to draw out of seemingly tiny details.
