Every Crooked Path

by Steven James

  “No. Just make as much progress on all this as you can. And keep me up to speed.”

  “I will.”

  +++

  Francis wondered if he’d said the right things.

  He hoped that he’d been helpful to the agent, but he wasn’t sure. He felt like he should have done more, helped more, noticed more, especially in regard to that backpack.

  Now, though, he got right to it, trying to develop an algorithm that would search for images or videos that might contain masks. But it was less than an hour before his two o’clock coffee break. So then, after seeing if the woman was there, he could pick up again looking for the masks and any images of D’Nesh Mujeeb Agarwai.

  Just thinking about the possibility of seeing her at the Mystorium made him feel both thrilled and anxious.

  Both good and bad.

  Like so many things.

  26

  Lily had stopped crying and screaming and had started trying to figure out how to escape from her imprisonment.

  You need to get out of here.

  Her eyes had gotten used to the dim, dirty light and she inspected the chain again for any links that she might be able to pry open, or for a way to get it off of the wall, but eventually gave that up as a lost cause.

  The chain gave her access to a half circle only ten or twelve feet in diameter. She carefully explored it but didn’t find anything she could use to get free.

  Everything else in the cellar—the cardboard boxes, the coiled-up garden hoses, the children’s bicycles, the cobweb-covered, antique furniture—was all beyond her reach, even when she extended the chain and stretched her arm out as far as she could.

  It was almost as if whoever had left her here was mocking her predicament by leaving everything right there.

  She was making one final sweep of the area when she saw the camera.

  It was hidden in the ceiling joists and wasn’t clearly visible from the grimy mattress where she’d been when she woke up, but here at the edge of the semicircle she could just barely make it out.

  The red operating light on the lower left-hand corner was on, and she took that to mean that she was currently being filmed.

  She gave whoever might have been watching her the finger, then turned her back to the camera and, frustrated, frightened, desperate, put her hands to her head and realized that she still had the ponytail in.

  That’s what Shane wanted you to wear.

  Well, screw him.

  She took out the hair clip and shook her hair free. A small act of rebellion, but it felt good to do it.

  As she was about to toss the clip aside, she noticed the size and design of the clasp mechanism.

  A tiny quiver of hope rose inside her.

  Yes, it looked like it might possibly fit.

  But first, before anything else, she needed to make sure she would be able to do this in secret, that there weren’t any other cameras eyeing her.

  Keeping the clip hidden in her hand, she walked the perimeter of the semicircle, carefully studying the ceiling, the walls, and, as best she could from where she was, the other items in the cellar, for any other operating lights that might signify more cameras.

  Seeing none, she sat down with her back to the one that she did know about, drew her legs close, and inserted the clasp into the keyhole of the padlock that secured the chain around her ankle.

  It did fit, but actually picking the lock was going to be another matter altogether.

  27

  On my return trip across town from the ICSC, Jodie called and informed me that there wasn’t any evidence that Stewart or Wooford had ever been near Beckley, West Virginia, or contacted anyone from that part of the state. The NYPD officers hadn’t uncovered anything from their interviews with Stewart’s family, friends, and neighbors.

  “Any word on the prints from those remote controllers?” I asked.

  “Our jumper, Randy McReynolds—on the TV remote. It’s confirmed. Stewart’s were present too. Nothing more on the mailing list. Did you get anything from the ICSC?”

  I told her about the video of the masks and about the backpack. “It’s the same style as D’Nesh Mujeeb Agarwai’s, it’s monogrammed with his initials, and there’s a small rip in the corner of the fabric just like there was in the case file’s description from his parents.”

  “So either that’s his pack or someone did an amazing job of duplicating it.”

  “For now we’ll move forward with the hypothesis that it is his. I had Edlemore send a copy of the footage to the lab. Some sort of electronic watermark that he was able to pull up contained the letters ‘FT,’ so it’s possible this video came from the Final Territory.”

  “So, then, if that’s the case, then D’Nesh is . . .”

  “We can’t assume either way,” I said, although Jodie was probably thinking the same thing I was: if D’Nesh had been taken by someone from the Final Territory, he might appear in some of their videos.

  I didn’t even want to think about what his abductors might have done to him—or made him do—if that was the case.

  He’d been missing for four months.

  That was an awful lot of time to film acts of molestation against a child who was being held captive.

  After ending the call with Jodie, I snagged lunch and then phoned Ralph. I figured he would prefer a call to a text, since he liked texting about as much as he liked driving in rush-hour traffic. Or France. The guy just did not like France.

  “I was actually gonna give you a shout,” he said. “You were right. Maybe you better start trusting your gut.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. What do you have?”

  “Your guy, Randy McReynolds, he was a Marine alright, served in a unit that doesn’t officially exist, working missions that never officially happened. Did tours in Iraq, Somalia, Sudan, and at least half a dozen places the United States has never sent any troops.”

  “Officially.”

  “Yeah. Officially. And after all that, he decides to off himself by taking a nosedive off a building?”

  “He seemed afraid when he jumped.”

  “Okay, but someone with his background? Afraid? Afraid of what?”

  “Well, for one thing, he didn’t want to be sent to prison. But he also seemed frightened by what some group would do to him if, or when, they found him.” I told him what I knew about the Final Territory, which, truthfully, wasn’t very much.

  There was a moment of light scraping sounds. It sounded like Ralph was repositioning his phone. “So, any word from the OPR?”

  “You heard about that?”

  “Well, I know you shot McReynolds in the leg. Obviously, the incident is gonna be under review.”

  “Neither DeYoung nor the OPR lawyer I met with has contacted me yet today. You know how these things can drag on. I guess I’ll just keep doing my job until I’m told not to.”

  “You want me to put some feelers out, see where things are at?”

  “Let’s just let it play out. Having any more to do with the review right now would only be a distraction for me.”

  “Gotcha.”

  On Friday afternoon in New York City, especially in the summer, people tend to leave work early, and now the crosswalks were packed with pedestrians anxious to get home for the weekend. The stoplights seemed to take forever. Snarled traffic. Cabs clogging the streets. People laying on their horns. Not fun.

  Driving around right now while talking on the phone wasn’t going to fly. I needed a place to set up shop for a while to read my files.

  “Listen,” I said, “I gotta go.”

  “Call me if you need anything.”

  I wasn’t intimately familiar with this part of the city, but I did know that there was a branch of the public library a couple of blocks from here. I worked there sometimes when I was over here and didn’t wa
nt to work at a coffee shop or restaurant.

  With federal plates and an OFFICIAL GOVERNMENT BUSINESS placard in the window, I could leave my car pretty much wherever I could find a spot, but this would give me a legit place to park and a little privacy to sort things through.

  28

  At two o’clock when Francis left the ICSC building, it felt like a wall of heat was smacking into him as he stepped out of the air-conditioned building.

  Walking down the street, he wondered if the red-haired woman from yesterday would be there at the Mystorium. But as soon as he entered, he saw her in front of the register. She had her hands full, juggling her phone, purse, a computer bag, and wallet, trying to dig out some bills to pay for her order.

  Francis unpocketed his wallet and did something he’d never done before, something that was completely out of character for him, but something Dr. Perrior would have been proud of him for doing: he said to her, “I’ll get that for you,” and he offered his credit card to Rebekah, the barista.

  “Oh no. I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “It’s just a cup of coffee.”

  “But it’s a latte. It’s, like, five dollars, I—”

  “That’s very nice of you, sir,” Rebekah said, quickly accepting the card from him with a wink. “So, what can I get started for you today?”

  Normally, he ordered a small cup of whatever the milder roast was, but now, instead, he opted for a large vanilla latte so that the woman, whose name he still didn’t know, wouldn’t feel awkward that he was spending more money on her than he was on himself.

  She finally managed to get control of all her things and stuck out a somewhat tentative hand. “I’m Skylar.”

  “Francis.”

  She squeezed his hand daintily with her fingers rather than actually shaking it.

  He handed Rebekah his punch card.

  “I guess I need to get one of those,” Skylar said to him.

  “Well.” Francis searched for an appropriate response. “They’re good for regular visitors.”

  Rebekah ran the order and returned his punch card and credit card to him.

  They waited for their lattes together at the end of the counter.

  “That was kind of you, Francis. To pay for that.”

  “It looked like you had your hands full.”

  She sighed. “My friends tell me I’m always trying to do too many things at once, that I need to learn to just focus on one thing at a time, to finish it up, and then move on. I just get flutter-brained sometimes.”

  “That’s good advice.” Once again Francis found himself not knowing what to say. “It’s always good to finish things up and then move on.”

  Stupid! That was a stupid thing to say!

  Quiet. I’m trying to talk to her!

  “Flutter-brained,” he said. “I’ve never heard that before, but I like it.”

  “Um, thank you.”

  The drinks came up and Skylar said, “There aren’t too many tables open. You’re welcome to sit with me—if you want to.”

  “Actually, I need to get back to my desk. Back to work.”

  “Oh.” She flushed, looked embarrassed. “Of course. Sure. Sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “So . . . Right. It was nice to meet you, Francis.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Skylar.”

  Then she offered him one last smile and walked toward the table.

  After pausing momentarily, Francis started for the door, but as he put his hand against it to press it open, he hesitated.

  Go back and find out her number or when you can see her again. This isn’t something you need to be afraid of. This is a good thing, Francis. You should do it.

  He stood there at the door debating things long enough for a man behind him to grunt impatiently. Francis stepped aside and the guy shouldered his way past him outside.

  Rebekah had a hand on her hip and was giving Francis a friendly-scoldy look. With her free hand she was pointing furtively yet emphatically at Skylar, who was setting up her laptop.

  It was almost like Francis could hear Dr. Perrior tell him that it would be a good choice, a healthy choice, to go back and speak with Skylar.

  And he could hardly believe it, but that’s what he did.

  His heart was beating so fast he thought it might burst as he approached her table.

  Skylar eyed him curiously as he came her way, looking nervous and self-conscious as if she were afraid she’d done something wrong and he’d returned to confront her.

  “Maybe tomorrow?” he said.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I could share your table with you—I mean, if you’re going to be coming in on a Saturday. You probably don’t work Saturdays, but if you do, I mean, if you wanted to, I can—really anytime, but three would—”

  “That would be nice.”

  “It would?”

  “Three is fine.” She lifted her drink. “I’ll buy yours for you tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He felt like he should say more but didn’t know what that should be and finally just settled on “See you then, Skylar.”

  It felt good calling her by name, this woman he’d only just met, this woman who’d been a stranger to him only a few minutes earlier. Now he knew her name. Now he could talk to her as if they were friends. Now they were more than strangers.

  “Okay,” she said. “See you then, Francis.”

  As he left, Rebekah gave him another surreptitious wink and a thumbs-up of approval.

  When he settled into his desk at the ICSC, his heart still hadn’t stopped slamming against the inside of his chest.

  And with that distracting him, he logged in and began to sort through the images, reminding himself of SICR: screening, identifying, cataloging, reporting.

  Yes, there was no one sicker than the people who posted this stuff online.

  No one at all.

  And he was here to help stop them.

  29

  A librarian whom I hadn’t met on my previous visits here set me up in the “staff only” area where they sorted and received books so I could speak on the phone and not interrupt the other people using the facility.

  On our way there I saw that every computer station was in use, but only one person was looking through the stacks browsing for a book.

  Typical.

  Who knows what role libraries will have twenty years from now—if they’re even around anymore.

  I suggested that it might be best if I used one of the study rooms, but she had her mind set and I didn’t push it.

  Over the years I’ve learned a few things.

  One: never catnap for more than twenty minutes or you’ll wake up groggy. Two: don’t go trail running in flip-flops. And three: don’t argue with a librarian. You will never win.

  So now, after setting up my laptop, I surfed to the Federal Digital Database and updated the online case files with the information I’d found out during my visit with Edlemore.

  While I was scrolling through the updates, I noticed that the autopsy results had been posted.

  The cause of death was listed as “catastrophic bodily injuries” caused by “impact-force trauma.”

  I’d never seen it phrased quite like that before, but the conclusion was no surprise.

  As it turned out, the gunshot wound in McReynolds’s thigh had not been serious, and if he hadn’t chosen to jump, it would’ve likely healed just fine.

  I didn’t know how that information was going to play with Aguirre and DeYoung, but at least my conscience was clear about what I’d done when I took that shot.

  The toxicology report was what grabbed my attention, and when I read it, I decided to confirm the findings with the medical examiner herself.

  I’d spoken with Dr. Coutre during other investigations, and h
er number was in my phone’s address book.

  “Is this correct?” I asked her. “McReynolds was poisoned with Tribaxil?”

  “An overdose, yes. In small doses it can be used to help you sleep. If he hadn’t jumped, he would have died anyway within a few hours.”

  That might have explained the note he was carrying.

  “Would he have known that he was drugged?”

  “Well, I don’t believe he would’ve been symptomatic yet when you saw him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “How is it administered?”

  “Normally orally, although some forms of it can be injected.”

  “So unless someone told him they’d slipped him the drug, or he took it himself, there’s no reason to believe he would’ve known he was dying.”

  “True. That is correct. But it’s not typically a drug someone would slip to someone else. I would anticipate that he knew he’d taken it.”

  Okay, so did Randy drug himself? Maybe. But if so, then why bother to jump?

  He didn’t seem suicidal until after he found out I was a federal agent.

  But if he didn’t drug himself, who did?

  And why would he have written a note that someone was supposed to open only in the case of his death if he didn’t know he was going to die?

  More folds.

  The origami of death.

  The pith of my job.

  I thanked Dr. Coutre and hung up.

  Randy had seemed frightened that someone was after him. Did he know he was dying? Could that have been what he meant when he said, “I’m dead already”?

  I wasn’t sure where to let those questions take me and decided that, rather than get caught up in amorphous conjecture, or motive analysis, I would focus on something concrete and specific.

  The geoprofile.

  I pulled up the notes I’d been working on earlier and searched through the file to identify Stewart’s and Wooford’s activity nodes.

  A few years ago some criminology researchers studied the hunting patterns of great white sharks off the coast of South Africa and discovered that, rather than choosing the ideal location for finding seals, when they were by themselves away from shore the sharks had a consistent area they used as the epicenter for their hunting activities.