Saving the World

by Ponzo, Gary

  Meltzer was expecting the worst, so he twisted his body around on his haunches with his gun out, waiting for Turkle to make his move.

  A third siren blared and now it seemed the entire police force was heading their way. An officer was down and another trapped. They would bring the Marines if they needed.

  “Agent Turkle,” Meltzer shouted.

  They waited.

  After a long pause the silence was broken by three police cars flying down the street, lights flashing, sirens blaring. One from the east, two from the west. They saw Meltzer and Backman and screeched to a stop, angling the nose of their cruisers against the front and back of Meltzer’s car to form a protective barrier for the two officers.

  One of the arriving officers jumped out and kept low as he crept up to Backman.

  “You okay?”Sergeant Jack Hanson asked.

  Backman nodded, but it was obvious he was losing blood.

  The sergeant looked at Meltzer. “How about you, Sam?”

  “I’m fine,” Meltzer said. He pointed to Backman. “We need to get him out of here.”

  “Ambulance is two minutes away,” Sergeant Hanson said.

  Just then a large black van arrived behind the cruisers. There was no labeling on the van, but Meltzer knew they were Hostage Rescue. Probably the best people to have in this situation.

  While the patrol officers took defensive positions behind their car doors and parked cars, the Hostage Rescue would be in full Kevlar, helmets and carrying bulletproof shields.

  No bullets were flying now and that lowered Meltzer’s heart rate.

  One of the officers from the Hostage Rescue team crouched over to the circle of officers.

  “What have we got?” he asked.

  “One rogue FBI agent,” Meltzer said, still gripping his gun as if the threat was still imminent. “He might be inside the house. His two children and a psychiatrist, Dr. Bryant, are inside the back bedroom. The room is on the southeast corner of the building. You need to get there quick. I’m not sure about the stability of this agent.”

  The officer abruptly left and motioned for his team to follow him around the car and into the line of fire.

  Meltzer was still breathing heavily as the ambulance arrived. Two medics jumped from the cab and swiftly maneuvered Backman onto a transfer gurney and lifted him up and into the back of the ambulance in less than a minute.

  Meltzer was leaning back against the car when a terrible thought occurred to him. He jumped to his feet and swung his gun out and scrutinized the back seat of the car.

  Nothing.

  Then he quickly examined the front seat.

  Nothing.

  He sat back down and watched Hanson give him a double take.

  “You okay, Sam?”

  Meltzer took a deep breath, but he kept his fears inside. Somehow the clouds seemed closer now. A mist settled over the street and Meltzer became claustrophobic. He wondered why the city of Chandler had become ground zero for all this insanity. The rain. Margo Sutter. A lunatic FBI agent. A law enforcement officer like Meltzer knew these weren’t coincidences. He just couldn’t find a way to connect the dots.

  “Sam?”

  Hanson was scrutinizing him now and Meltzer couldn’t stop his fingers from twitching.

  “The thing is,” Meltzer said, leaning his head back against the rear panel of his car. He was sitting in an accumulating puddle, the rain keeping him saturated. “All this water and I’m completely dehydrated.”

  Meltzer’s swirling thoughts were interrupted by the crackle of Sergeant Hanson’s radio. “We’re inside,” came a voice from Hostage Rescue.

  Hanson looked at Meltzer while he pushed the button on the radio attached to his shirt. “Keep me posted.”

  Lightning flashed across the sky just above their heads, followed by a loud burst of thunder.

  There was a few long seconds of silence, then the voice on the radio said, “We’re in the bedroom.”

  Another long pause. Meltzer couldn’t stand the waiting. He squeezed the handle of his gun, ready to leap out and run after Turkle all by himself if he had to.

  Hanson kept his attention on Meltzer as if he might turn into a zombie if he looked away. His hand rested on the radio as they waited.

  “I’ve got them,” the voice said. “They were hiding in the closet. They’re all safe.”

  Meltzer shut his eyes and sighed. Even the strengthening downpour couldn’t prevent him from a satisfied smile as he felt a sense of relief. But then the realization came across his mind. Turkle would not quit.

  Ever.

  Chapter 30

  “Why didn’t you tell me Turkle had Jeff?” Bryant snapped from the passenger seat.

  They were in Meltzer’s car driving west on Chandler Boulevard. Meltzer’s windshield wipers were working at maximum speed. The radio was on the all-news channel. It was just loud enough to hear the tone of the announcer’s voice but not the exact words.

  “You were taking care of the kids,” Meltzer said, glancing sideways at him.

  Bryant was low on energy but high on anxiety. “Sam, how do we—”

  “Are they okay?” Meltzer asked.

  “No,” Bryant said flatly. “Not even close.”

  Meltzer had to dance around this one. “How much do they know about their dad? I mean can they help us find him?”

  Bryant frowned. “The mom did a good job of buffering them from the real psychotic stuff. They don’t know any more than you do.”

  “How about—”

  “Leave them alone,” Bryant said. “They’ve been through enough.”

  Meltzer nodded. “Yeah, of course. Sorry.”

  Meltzer routinely swerved the car to avoid puddles growing from the curbs. Chandler didn’t have a sewer system which took away excess rain. The desert tended to swallow up the moisture as quickly as it came. Unless it rained nonstop for days at a time.

  “I don’t like Margo being handled by the FBI,” Bryant said.

  “She’ll be fine. They’ll keep her in the safe house for a couple of days until this thing plays out.”

  “I just think she needs someone to be there for her.”

  “You can see her tonight.”

  Meltzer drove through the downpour with both hands gripping the wheel, the wind pushing the four-door sedan from one side of the road to the other.

  “Listen,” Bryant said, looking out the passenger window, “we’ve never spoken about the accident.”

  “I know,” Meltzer said. “I just assumed you would get to it when you were ready.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m only curious about one thing. Robert Henson.”

  “Okay? What would you like to know?”

  “The autopsy. Did you see the report?”

  “See it? I was there.”

  “And?”

  Meltzer took his foot off the gas and tapped the steering wheel with his index finger. “He was nine times over the legal limit. He died of alcohol poisoning.”

  “So he died before the crash?”

  “Yeah, he died with his foot on the accelerator. The only thing keeping his car on the road was the guard rail.”

  Bryant sighed, realizing that Turkle was twisting the facts to fit his narrative. After a few moments, Bryant could sense Meltzer staring at him.

  “Are you ready to discuss that day?” Meltzer asked. “I can—”

  “No,” Bryant said. “That’s all I needed.”

  “Because I was at—”

  “It’s okay,” Bryant said, holding up his hand. “I have a more pressing question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why hasn’t Turkle called yet?”

  “Because he’s setting us up,” Meltzer said. “He’ll use Jeff as a tool to get what he wants.”

  Bryant was about to ask what the guy wanted, but he already knew that. Or thought he did. He considered all the ways Turkle seemed to show up out of nowhere. The guy was incredibly resourceful. Meltzer must’ve noticed his preoccupati
on with their surroundings as he kept scouring the landscape for a black SUV.

  “Relax,” Meltzer said. “We’ll see him soon enough.”

  Bryant looked at him. “You getting clairvoyant on me?”

  “More like philosophical.”

  As Meltzer drove down a combination of side streets, Bryant noticed the detective spent a lot of time glancing in his rearview mirror.

  “You seem a bit anxious,” Bryant said.

  “I’m cautious. There’s a difference.”

  “I see.” Bryant nodded. Then he remembered something. “You never told me where we were going.”

  “Church.”

  Bryant cocked his head. “Church?”

  “Yes,” Meltzer said, flatly. “I’ve found someone who thinks he has answers.”

  * * *

  FBI agent Jack McCoy had been given the security detail of protecting the alien girl, Margo Sutter, and he needed to stay awake another twelve hours before his shift ended. Their safe house was ten miles east of Chandler in a highly secure facility. The windows were bulletproof and the alarm system remarkable. He kept staring out the front window of the small house tucked into a cul-de-sac of a rural community and it seemed to be sending the wrong signals to his guest.

  “You’re making me nervous,” Margo Sutter said from the couch. She had skinny little legs and her hands played with imaginary objects in her lap.

  “Sorry,” McCoy said. “It’s my nature to pace.”

  “Well, I’m not feeling very safe when you keep looking outside the way you do.”

  McCoy sat on a leather rocking chair and crossed his legs. The girl watched him carefully.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

  “Not really.” Margo looked out the same window and McCoy had to grin at that.

  “He’s no danger to you,” McCoy said. “I was merely trying to get the jump on him before he did something stupid.”

  “Like break in?”

  McCoy shook his head. “He can’t break in.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because this complex is bulletproof and locked up as tight as a safe house could be.”

  “Then how do you get out?”

  McCoy pointed to the front door. “See that green button on the wall? I push that and it disarms the alarm system for five seconds. It gives me time to exit without causing a ruckus.”

  This seemed to calm her nerves.

  McCoy withdrew a cigarette from his inside jacket pocket and tapped it on his pant leg. “So you speak with aliens, huh?”

  That one brought a smile to her face.

  “Sometimes,” she said demurely, as if playing with him.

  McCoy adroitly twirled the cigarette around in his fingers. Years of practice paying off. “Any way you can ask them where Ron Turkle is?”

  Margo frowned. “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “Yeah? Then tell me how it works. How do they contact you?”

  “Well, it’s not like I hear their voices in my ear. I hear them in my head.”

  “And how do they hear you?”

  Margo shrugged. Innocence dripping from her face. “I don’t know if they ever hear me.”

  “That sounds a little one-sided if you ask me.”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  McCoy could tell he’d sparked a certain level of curiosity with the girl. She kept looking around the room with a sense of purpose. Finally her attention rested on the cigarette in his hand.

  McCoy held it up. “You want one?”

  Margo looked surprised. “No, of course not. I was just wondering when you were going to smoke it.”

  McCoy held the cigarette in front of his face and stared. “With any luck . . . never.”

  “So you just like holding it?”

  “Exactly. As long as I can have that same sensation of holding it and placing it in my mouth and letting it hang from my lips, I’m good. That’s all I need.”

  Margo glanced out the window behind him as if something caught her attention.

  McCoy swung around and scrutinized the landscape. Nothing but rain.

  “You see something?” McCoy asked.

  “No.”

  When he turned back, Margo was staring at him with a peculiar expression.

  “You wouldn’t be reading my mind, would you?” he asked.

  Margo kept staring. “Are you afraid of something?”

  “Not at all,” he said, forging a look of composure. “It’s just that I don’t lie to myself.”

  “Which means you lie to other people.”

  “Well,” McCoy tapped his cigarette on his leg again. “Let’s just say, I couldn’t do my job very well unless I strayed from the truth just a bit.”

  “Have you lied to me?”

  McCoy shrugged. “No reason to lie. You’re not a criminal. You’re under our protection.”

  “And what if I don’t want your protection?”

  “Trust me,” McCoy said, placing the cigarette in his mouth, “you want our protection.”

  “Not really,” she said, almost to herself. “You do realize that I’m virtually impossible to kill. People have tried and failed. So keeping me locked up isn’t exactly the smartest choice.”

  McCoy had heard the stories and wondered how much truth there was to her line of reasoning. “I understand.”

  “Then why isn’t Dr. Bryant in here? He’s the one who needs the protection, not me.”

  “He’s safe,” McCoy assured her, taking the cigarette from his mouth and twirling it around between his fingers.

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s my job to know,” McCoy said, pulling out his cell phone and glimpsing at the screen to see if he’d missed any messages. He was getting glib with the girl, but couldn’t help himself. After all, his assignment wasn’t exactly riveting stuff. Babysitting a teenager so a lunatic FBI agent doesn’t get to her. He casually scrolled through his phone list and found Ron Turkle’s contact info. He wondered how much Turkle would pay him for Margo Sutter. McCoy had heard stories from his fellow agents that Turkle was offering several thousand for certain information leading to her capture.

  Margo’s eye rolled around the room, not focusing on any one thing.

  “Something wrong?’

  “Yes.”

  McCoy instinctively put his hand on his gun tucked in his shoulder holster.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Your partner is not sleeping.”

  McCoy sighed. “And you know that because you can read his mind?”

  “Yes. Just Like I know you were thinking about Agent Turkle’s bounty money for me.”

  That stopped him. He cocked his head. “Wow. You’re for real, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m real,” she said earnestly.

  McCoy twirled his cigarette with a quicker pace. “Can you tell me who’ll win the Kentucky Derby next year?”

  The girl put one leg over the other and crossed her arms. “Really?”

  “Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “Money is important to you, isn’t it?”

  “It’s important to everyone.”

  “Not everyone.”

  McCoy pointed his cigarette at her from between his index and middle fingers. “You’re too young to understand. Wait until you have kids and need money for college and weddings and schoolbooks and cars and insurance. Believe me, you’ll have an entirely new perspective on money.”

  Margo pulled her arms closer to her chest and frowned.

  “So, what’s up with my partner?”

  “I think he’s going through a terrible divorce and he needs your help.”

  McCoy sat back in his chair and nodded. “Yeah, he’s got a lot on his mind right now. The divorce isn’t helping.”

  Margo’s eyes remained elusive. “He’s extremely depressed.”

  McCoy waved the back of his hand at her. “He’ll be fine.”

  “No, he won’t. You have no idea how bad he i
s. He’s thinking about committing suicide.”

  McCoy sat upright now and looked down the hallway leading to the closed bedroom door where his partner should have been sleeping. Margo was staring at him with her eyebrows raised.

  “Are you kidding me?” she said. “You were the best man at his wedding and you’re not going to help him?”

  Now he really felt like a real jerk. Especially with this conscience being exposed so openly.

  “Shit,” he said, flicking his unlit cigarette onto the couch next to Margo as he got up and made his way to the bedroom. He wasn’t sure who he was mad at, but he was pissed at someone.

  When McCoy opened the door, he noticed his partner lying on his side away from him. “Keith?” he said.

  No answer.

  McCoy felt the room get colder as he moved around the bed to examine his partner’s body. The man was still wearing all his clothes, which was peculiar for a civilian, but not for an FBI agent during safe house shifts.

  “Keith?” he called again.

  No movement.

  McCoy was on his knees now, right next to his partner. He placed his hand on Keith’s cheek.

  The agent flung up and snatched McCoy’s hand with lightning speed, gripping and twisting his arm until McCoy yelled, “Stop! It’s me!”

  Agent Keith Barrington was thick and stocky with a weatherworn face and large, meaty hands.

  Keith let go of his partner’s hand and wiped the sleep away from his pillow-creased face. “What’s the problem?” he said, placing his feet down to the floor and sitting up.

  “I thought . . .” McCoy said, rubbing his bruised wrist.

  “You thought what?”

  “I thought you were in trouble.”

  “In trouble? I’m inside an FBI safe house. Where’s the trouble?”

  McCoy tried to think about his guest’s mindreading skills. “Maybe you were having a nightmare? Were you dreaming about your divorce?”

  Now Keith Barrington scrutinized McCoy with an expression he would use on fugitives telling him stories. “You came in here to wake me up because I was having a bad dream?”

  “Listen,” McCoy said, “this girl is the real deal. She can actually read people’s minds. And she told me you were considering . . . suicide.”

  At first, Keith’s face remained intense, as if he were considering the comment with great interest. Then after a few seconds he broke out into a wide smile and patted his partner on the shoulder. “Look, buddy, I’ve had a rough time with Lindsay and the kids, but, hey, I’m not going anywhere. The thought never entered my mind.”