Interlude- First Noel

by Tal Bauer

  Ethan waited in the car for Becker, his ball cap on, until Becker threw his suitcase in the back seat and clambered into the front. A few of the other agents had invited Becker out for beers, and Ethan had been prepared to hang out in the back of the command post for a few hours, fending off glares and stares. But, Becker had declined.

  “Didn’t want to go out with the guys?”

  “Want to get back to work on our case.” Becker chewed at his thumbnail as he squinted. “There’s a murderer out there.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not our lane.” Ethan drove out of the parking lot, eyebrows arched behind his shades. “You heard Shepherd. We’re running the counterfeiting side. The FBI is handling the murders.” And, though counterfeiting was a crime, their entire investigation could be put on hold to go to Chicago for the week and backfill the protective detail for the vice president. The Secret Service had its priorities.

  “But you found something on Doreen.” Becker rolled his head to the side and fixed Ethan with a glare. “And we can use that to get more out of her. Something the FBI hasn’t been able do. And, if we get back early, we could go interrogate her before you have to go.”

  “Go?”

  “To the airport. It’s Friday.” Becker stared like Ethan had lost his mind. “You’re going to DC, aren’t you?”

  Ethan shook his head.

  Becker’s scowl deepened. He turned in his seat, straightening as he stared at Ethan’s profile. “You didn’t go last weekend. And you’re not going this weekend. I thought all of that crap they print about you guys was garbage, but―” He squinted. “I mean, you knew every word of his speech.”

  Ethan ditched his ball cap into the back seat. “The UN vote stole one weekend. And I’m not going this weekend because I’m using my vacation days for Christmas. I’ve been using half days every Friday for three months. And I lost a bunch, after―” He shrugged. “I want to have more time with him over the holiday. So, I’m going on Wednesday instead.”

  Whistling, Becker shook his head. “No special treatment, huh?”

  “I don’t want any.” Ethan shot him a glare. “Neither of us want special treatment.”

  “So… You guys are good?” Becker’s face scrunched up. “What everyone is saying. What they’re printing. It’s all crap, right?”

  Ethan’s gaze met Becker’s through his shades. This kid, this man almost half his age, his unwanted partner and supposed babysitter, was staring at him, his worry and wonder and hesitation all mixing together. “Yeah,” he said softly. Right now, at least.

  Relief flitted across Becker’s face, but he played it off, leaning back in his seat. “That’s cool,” he said, propping one arm up on the doorframe. “You guys look pretty good in that photo you’ve got hidden on your desk.”

  “Thanks.” He didn’t really know what else to say. He just kept his eyes on the road.

  “I mean, it’s got to be something real―something serious―if you were willing to risk everything for the guy. You’re pretty strict, so―” Becker’s head bobbed back and forth. “And I don’t know the guy, but the president seems like a cool dude.” He shrugged.

  Ethan’s eyes flicked sideways. Becker was on a roll.

  “Seems like the kind of guy who doesn’t do assholes, you know? I totally thought you were a jerk, at first―”

  He couldn’t keep it in. Ethan snorted and burst out laughing, loud chuckles that made him shake. His cheeks burned.

  “What?” Becker glared. “You were That Guy who broke every rule and then kissed the president on the White House lawn. We all thought you’d be a prick. Demanding, arrogant, think you’re all that―”

  “Not that part.” Ethan shook his head, still smirking. “What you said before that.”

  “The president doesn’t do assholes? Yeah, he seems like a guy that wouldn’t put up with―”

  Becker stopped dead. Turned fourteen different shades of magenta, flushing from tomato red to fuchsia and back again. His lips clamped shut and he glared out the passenger window.

  Ethan laughed again.

  “I take it back. You are a fucking jerk.”

  “You said it. Not me.”

  He was still grinning when his phone buzzed. Ethan fished it out, keeping one eye on the empty highway ahead of him as he swiped his phone on and saw a message from Jack flash up. My VP is back from Chicago. Will you be home in time for our call?

  [Driving. Can you talk?]

  His phone rang a few seconds later. Ethan glanced at Becker, still glaring out the window.

  “Hey, love.”

  Becker’s spine went rigid, his shoulders taut.

  “Hey.” There was a smile in Jack’s voice, light and bright. “Just wanted to check in with you. See if we were on for our usual call time tonight or if you had to do anything else in Chicago.”

  “We’re good. Driving back now. We were cut loose when Green went to the airport.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “How’s camping in the Situation Room going? Have you worked through the entire takeout menu yet?”

  Becker turned, staring at Ethan like Ethan had lost his mind.

  Jack laughed. “Almost. We ordered Thai three times. It was a room favorite. But it’s going well. Green did all right with his part. I think we’re on track. And, everything is going well with Russia, too.”

  “I can’t believe President Puchkov is being so friendly toward you. Think it’s real?” Ethan could see the whites ringing Becker’s eyes.

  “I hope so. I’m enjoying getting to know the man. I might actually like him.”

  Ethan laughed. “I’m sure it’s all an FSB ploy. He’s trying to make you like him.”

  “Maybe.” That smile in Jack’s voice was back. “But I’m going to hope for the best.”

  “You always do.”

  “Oh, the stewards were asking. They couldn’t find your tux. Is it in my closet? Or does Agent Collard know where it is?”

  “If they haven’t cleaned out my locker in Horsepower, my tux is down there. Ask Scott. He can get it, if it’s there. If not, he’s got a key to my condo.”

  “I’ll ask. And, do you want to do matching bowties for the Christmas Ball?”

  “Matching black bowties?”

  “Matching Christmas bow ties.” Jack’s voice was teasing. “Santa and reindeer? Or snowmen?”

  Laughing, Ethan shook his head. “Your staff would never let you wear that. Remember what they said about your yellow tie?”

  “But you said it made me look presidential.”

  “A reindeer bowtie will not make you look presidential, love. Sorry to say.” He pretended to sigh, watching out of the corner of his eye as Becker’s jaw dropped.

  Jack was laughing, though. “All right, matching black bow ties. I’ll have to come up with something else we can do together.”

  “Matching nose rings.”

  Jack snorted.

  Becker shook his head, fighting back a smile. He looked away.

  “With jingle bells.”

  “Oh, something with bells.” That teasing tone was back in Jack’s voice. Then he sighed. “I’m going to miss you tonight.”

  Ethan’s throat clenched, and the humor of the moment fled. “Me too.” Fridays were supposed to be the good days.

  “Maybe we could Skype more over the weekend?”

  “Yeah. We should. I’m not doing anything except laundry.”

  “Why doing laundry? You don’t need to wear anything when you’re here.”

  Ethan barked out a laugh, his cheeks warming. He glanced at Becker, wondering if the volume was up enough for Becker to hear Jack’s voice.

  Becker was resolutely staring out the window, but his shoulders were shaking up and down.

  “Uh, I’d say something similar, but I’m not alone right now.”

  “Sorry.” Jack didn’t sound sorry at all.

  “Don’t be, love.”

  Jack didn’t say anything, but the soft sigh, the warm happiness he ex
uded, flowed over the phone.

  “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Love you.”

  Ethan’s eyes darted to Becker. “Love you too.”

  He hung up, and the miles rolled on, asphalt humming beneath their tires. Becker kept staring out the window, not looking at Ethan until they stopped for gas. Ethan pumped while Becker went inside. He came out a few minutes later with two bottles of water and two candy bars.

  Becker tossed over a bottle of water and said, “I’ll drive for a while, if you want to text and stuff.”

  12

  Des Moines

  Monday morning just before dawn, Ethan and Becker strode into the jail, each holding a steaming cup of coffee, and badged into the interrogation rooms. The same sheriff who had been in the room when Ethan had lost his cool was there, and he nodded to Ethan once, almost smiling.

  They waited together for the sheriff to bring Doreen out from her cell.

  “Good weekend?” Becker was twitchy, adrenaline and excitement making his toes tap against the tile floor.

  Ethan nodded. He and Jack had texted most of Saturday while Jack was playing catch-up with his core staff, dealing with domestic issues from Congress that had backed up while he was working on the invasion plans with his Joint Chiefs and Puchkov’s envoys. Sunday, they kept Skype on while they watched football together, laughing and joking as they lounged around on their couches, a thousand miles apart. It wasn’t like being there and holding Jack in his arms, but it was better than being on his own with just his swirling thoughts and aching heart.

  “Bet you’re ready for Wednesday, huh?” Becker tipped back in his chair, balancing it on two legs.

  “Jack keeps saying we need a time machine.”

  “Shit, just have him call Area 51. I’m sure they’ll hook him up. I mean, there’s got to be some perks to dating the president.”

  Ethan snorted as the door opened, and the sheriff escorted a grumpy, bedraggled Doreen into the room. She shuffled, glaring through her stringy hair hanging in front of her face, and collapsed into the chair opposite them with a grunt. She yawned through the sheriff securing her cuffs to the floor and the table, and tipped her head forward, trying to go back to sleep.

  Becker quirked one eyebrow at Ethan. His eyes sparkled. Time for Ethan to hit it home.

  “Good morning, Gabriela.”

  She stiffened, every muscle in her body going taut. Her sleepiness, her practiced indifference, vanished from one moment to the next. She stayed still, her hair hanging in front of her face, but it was the wariness of a cornered animal that kept her frozen.

  “I thought Doreen was an unusual name for you from the first time we met. Too old. But, then again, old names are what you’re left with when you are using a fake identity.”

  Slowly, so slowly that Ethan could practically hear her bones creak, Gabriela sat up, rolling her head until she was staring at Ethan, wide-eyed from behind her curtain of lank hair.

  “Let me know if I got it all right. You were a young teen and you wanted a new start. Maybe your home life was crap. Maybe you were escaping a gang. Or drugs. Or your parents were beating you. Or a boyfriend who wasn’t worth jack shit. You did some research online. Found out you could take over a dead baby’s identity pretty easily in some parts of America. Rural parts. So you wandered through cemeteries until you found a headstone for Doreen Watts in Platte, South Dakota. Doreen died when she was one and a half. There were no records online. The death certificate was filed with the local church. No Social Security number was ever issued. From a governmental standpoint, you picking up where she left off would look practically seamless.”

  Gabriela didn’t move. Barely breathed.

  “So you got your driver’s license with Doreen’s birth certificate in Sioux Falls. Moved around. Fell in with the wrong crowd.” Ethan shrugged, crossing one leg over the other. “How am I doing so far?”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” Gabriela said, her voice low, almost growling. “You don’t know a damn thing.”

  “Why don’t you tell me, then? Explain it to me.”

  Silence. Gabriela swallowed, slowly.

  “You’re in here waiting for your trial on counterfeiting charges, Gabriela. You’re looking at up to ten years in federal prison. We can add felony identity theft to this, and―” Ethan whistled. He shook his head, his lips pursed. “That’s a long time in prison.”

  She sniffed, and her fingers curled into her hands. She trembled.

  “What were you running from?” Becker said softly.

  “Fuck you!” Gabriela exploded. “You have no idea what you’re talking about! No fucking idea! You’ve never had it hard! Ever!” She tried to back away, run away from them, but the chain fixing her cuffs to the table pulled her up short. She collapsed instead, curling into herself and sobbing as she doubled over in the chair.

  Ethan stayed quiet. So did Becker.

  After a few minutes, Ethan pulled out a few napkins he’d stuffed into his coat pocket from the coffee shop. He stood and walked to Gabriela’s side, kneeling and holding them under the curtain of her hair. She glared but took the napkins, wiping at her wet eyes and running nose.

  “I know what it’s like to lose,” he said softly. “Lose… everything. And have to face up to things you’ve done.”

  “I wouldn’t change anything I did,” Gabriela snapped. “I’m a survivor.”

  “I wouldn’t change what I did either. But I still understand.”

  Gabriela sniffed, long and loud.

  “We can help you, Gabriela. You’re part of something―something bigger than just these faked bills. You’re connected to the two dead girls we’ve found. They had the bills you forged on them when they died.” Ethan stood and walked back to his chair. Becker gave him a tight smile and a barely-there nod. “What can you tell us about those girls?”

  She sniffed again, but sat up a bit, rolling the soaked napkins in her hands as she stared at the floor. “You’re right about a lot of it. But not the why. Me and those other girls… We came across the border together. Paid a coyote a grand each to get us across the border.”

  Ethan and Becker shared a long look. A coyote, a human smuggler working the southern border, usually took people across for far more than a thousand dollars each.

  “And then?” Becker leaned forward.

  Gabriela shifted, biting her lip. “We had to pay more, he said, when we got here. Had to earn our way.” She gestured weakly up and down her body.

  Ethan’s eyes slipped closed. How young had she been, forced to prostitute herself, locked in the clutches of a human trafficker?

  “She got us out.” Suddenly, Gabriela was on fire, her eyes blazing, staring at them with fury and passion in her eyes. “She saved us. Got us away from those pinche putos!” She spat, lobbing a wad of spit to the floor.

  “Who?”

  “Mother,” Gabriela breathed. “Mother. She saved us all. Helped us get our new names. Helped us hide. And, yeah, she’s the one who taught me to make those fake Benjamins. But―” Her lips clamped shut, as if she was physically restraining herself from going any further.

  “But?” Becker prodded.

  Gabriela fought with herself, her lips twisting, nose sniffling. Her whole body shook. Her feet tapped on the floor and she gnawed on her fingers. “But I left her,” Gabriela finally whispered. “And now my sisters are dead.”

  Pitching forward, her tears started again, raining from Gabriela’s eyes and into her palms. The jumpsuit sleeves, too long for her, slid down her forearms, covering the scars of her needle tracks and slipping over her bony wrists, almost covering her hands pressed over her face. For a moment, she looked like the frightened young teen she must have been, scared and alone and bereft.

  This woman―Mother―kept coming up. Their link in the counterfeiting chain, and now, the missing link in the murdered girls. She was part of the FBI’s locked files, behind their iron curtain of refusal to share intelligence.

 
; “Who is Mother, Gabriela?” Ethan leaned forward, trying to close the distance across the table, trying to reach for her. “Who is she?”

  Gabriela’s head shook, left and right and back again, as if it hurt. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t.” Sniffing, she stared Ethan down, licking her lips. “You ever love someone so much you’ll die for them? Do anything for them? Even if it means you’re done for?”

  Next to Ethan, Becker stiffened.

  Ethan held her watery gaze. “Yes.”

  “Then you know why I can’t say anything to you.”

  They kept Gabriela’s interrogation to themselves.

  They never recorded their meetings. They didn’t file it in the system. Didn’t write up a report on it. Didn’t do anything that would get the attention of the FBI.

  “Trust me?” Ethan asked Becker. “I’ve got an idea. For when I’m in DC. I’ll let you know what happens when I’m back.”

  Becker nodded and dropped the issue completely.

  Wednesday finally arrived.

  Starting on Monday, Jack had sent countdown selfies every few hours, growing more exuberant with each. Wednesday morning Ethan woke up to a selfie of Jack lying back in bed, completely naked except for a Santa hat perched on his crotch, sporting a wide, wicked grin.

  Ethan didn’t have a single decoration in his apartment and couldn’t respond in kind, but he sent back a teasing message after he picked his jaw up off the floor. [Is Santa looking for a helper?]

  Yep. But not a little one. ;)

  [Oh, trust me. It’s not little. Esp not after that…]

  :)

  Ethan headed to the office for the morning to review case notes for another of Becker’s cases. Every hour, his phone buzzed with another text from Jack.

  Five more hours.

  Ethan grinned. [Are you getting anything done today?]

  Absolutely not. Lawrence is ready to throw a fit. :)

  LOL

  Becker said his name for the third time, and Ethan jumped. He grinned guiltily and tapped out a final message. I’m not getting anything done either.