by Steven James
She offered to let Assistant Director DeYoung know what was going on.
“I’ll contact him,” I said.
+++
At the dining room table, I went on my computer and had just started an email to DeYoung when my phone vibrated. A text from Tessa: “It’s not bad. Not great but not bad.”
I doubted that many teens used proper spelling and punctuation when they texted, but I had the sense that Tessa wouldn’t have had it any other way.
I texted back, “So you figured it out?”
“It’s nice. It’s clever, simple, elegant,” she replied, choosing the same language I’d used on Saturday when I was talking about the logic problem she’d made up.
“Nice?” I typed, echoing what she’d said the other day. “What does that mean? Did you solve it?”
“Yes. But you made that up?”
“You’re stalling.”
“I’m not stalling,” she texted back.
“You are so stalling,” I replied.
“The mall is on the right. The beach is on the left. Eric is twelve; he always lies. Paul is thirteen and tells the truth half the time. John is fourteen; he always tells the truth. Matt is fifteen and lies half the time.”
Man.
She was good.
It wasn’t the easiest puzzle in the world and I was curious how she’d solved it so quickly, but since she’d nailed it and I knew she’d never seen it before—since I’d just made it up tonight—clearly, whatever technique she’d used had worked.
I texted her, “Does this mean you’re talking to me again?”
I waited.
Finally, she typed back, “No.”
“But you’re texting me.”
“This doesn’t count. I’m not moving my lips.”
“Training wheels,” I texted.
“Enjoy not eating meat.”
When I set my phone down, Christie said, “Well?”
“It looks like it’s going to be an ongoing project, but I think the foundations are in place.”
As I was finishing the email to the Assistant Director, I recalled that Blake had access to my phone records. I wasn’t sure if my email account had been compromised as well, so I used an alias account to send my report to DeYoung. Then I turned to a more personal matter.
I wanted to put this whole prospect of moving with Christie on the table, to examine the possibility and see if it got my juices flowing, so I pulled up some online maps of Omaha and started poring over them, studying the cost of apartments in different neighborhoods, especially those near the Field Office.
However, rather than finding the prospect of relocating intriguing, it just made me feel anxious.
I was caught up in my thoughts about that when Christie said, out of nowhere, “I never told you what brought us to New York City.”
“No. You didn’t.”
“I was trying to start fresh. I’d met a guy and I thought maybe . . . Well, I came here to be close to him and it didn’t work out. By then I had a job and I decided to stay.”
I wondered why she was explaining this to me now, but then she pointed toward my computer screen where the website of Omaha real estate was visible to her. “Moving to be close to someone doesn’t always go as planned,” she said softly.
“Are you telling me this to dissuade me from coming with you?”
“Just to make sure you don’t make a mistake.”
“But see, was it really a mistake for you to move here? If you hadn’t, we never would’ve met.”
“That’s one way to look at it, but I think our paths still would’ve crossed.”
“Why do you say that?”
“When people are meant to be—” she started, then caught herself and said, “I just mean, I believe there’s a bigger plan at work. If people—whoever they are—are destined to be together, it’ll . . . I’m digging myself a hole, aren’t I?”
“Not really. I kind of like the idea that we were meant to be together, that it’s part of a bigger plan.”
A call came in. I checked the screen.
Tobin.
“Hang on. I need to take this.” I went to the other room. “What do you have?”
“I think someone found out about our visit with Lloyd in prison yesterday.”
“Why’s that?”
“About an hour ago he was found dead in the shower. Blunt force trauma. Someone bashed in the back of his skull with a fire extinguisher that’d been stolen from the kitchen.”
Though I wasn’t thrilled to hear that Lloyd was dead, considering what he’d done to those children, I didn’t mourn very long. “And I suppose no one knows anything about this—any of the other inmates, I mean?”
“According to the official report put out by the warden, no one saw a thing.”
“Of course not.”
The prisoners knew that if they did report anything, they might be next.
“So,” I said, “someone wasn’t happy that he was talking to us. Someone with connections.”
“Connections—you mean someone in law enforcement?”
“Maybe. Jodie’s doing some checking into the task force. Stay in touch with her.”
“The task force?”
I summarized the reasoning.
He heard me out, then said, “As far as task force members and the mailing list, I already checked that out. Chip wasn’t on Stewart’s list, but he did get real estate emails. When I talked with him he told me, ‘Retiring on the pension of a cop? No thanks.’ He subscribes to half a dozen newsletters for investment opportunities.”
“Huh.”
“Maybe it’s something, maybe it’s not. We can’t discard it, but when I looked into it, it didn’t lead anywhere.”
“Okay.”
“Listen, I’ve been thinking about the fact that there were five people present at the filming of the video with the masks. I mean, we can’t presume too much, but according to D’Nesh, the two guys who were in Romanoff’s house didn’t wear masks. That leaves us with, what? Blake? Shane? Romanoff? The Piper? And someone else we don’t know about yet?”
“There’s no evidence that they’re all different people,” I said. “Romanoff might be the Piper. Blake might be Shane. But yes. Any way you slice it, there are a lot of people involved in this. We need more information.”
“I’ll see what else I can pull up on Lloyd.”
“Since the key they gave me had nine o’clock written on it I might be in for a busy night. We’ll see.”
“Keep me updated as best you can.”
“I will.”
+++
I kept my phone ready and my email open, but nine o’clock passed by without Blake contacting me. I continued to work and gave him until ten thirty, then finally called it quits for the day.
While I lay on the couch trying to fall asleep, I thought of all those names we’d listed, all the people who might be involved with the Final Territory.
I sometimes wonder if offenders think about getting caught, if they ponder the consequences of their choices. I’ve heard of instances in which killers were apprehended after years or even decades on the run and they didn’t fight the police or try to flee. They just went along willingly.
Back in the 1980s when the police arrived to capture one serial killer twelve years after his crimes began, he simply said, “It’s about time.”
So how does a person go about day-to-day living knowing that at any moment he might be caught and sent to prison for the rest of his life?
Waiting.
Watching.
For the day when the police show up and you say—or at least think— “It’s about time.”
Desire. To enticement. To death.
Chained souls.
Manacled hearts.
Blake had
told me that the key I now had was the key to everything, but we still didn’t know what it actually opened.
I kept it beside me as I closed my eyes and wondered what exactly “everything” might entail.
75
Wednesday, June 20
7:00 a.m.
14 hours left
I slept in my clothes just in case I was called out for some reason.
But I was not.
And I did not sleep well.
The images in my dreams weren’t quiet and reassuring, but rather, were marked with the madness of this case.
I saw myself surrounded by tongues of fire like those from the other day in the burning house. Higgs was there too, being consumed by the flames, then his head snapped back from the bullet hitting his forehead, and he fell to the floor. I watched prison bars rise around me and razor wire from the Albany Federal Penitentiary hem me in. It curled into me and then twisted its way out of my chest, the coils covered with glistening blood.
When I finally awoke, I was glad Christie and Tessa were in their rooms and didn’t see how tense I was as I tried to shake off the residue of my dark thoughts in the night.
+++
We all got ready for the day, and as Tessa finished up her breakfast, I said, “Are you talking to me now?”
“Yes. But I’m using small words.”
“Okay. So, tell me how you solved that logic problem last night.”
“Well, the two who lie and tell the truth half the time would need to point the same direction for each question, whereas the other two would have to switch. And since John has a younger brother, he can’t be the twelve-year-old who always lies. Therefore he must always tell the truth.”
Amazing.
I’d thought it would be more confusing, but when she put it like that, it sounded so simple.
“So, how long did it take you to figure out?”
“I waited for a while before I texted you. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings by making you think it was too easy.”
“Oh. Well. Thanks for that. So, this is your last day of exams and then you can finally enjoy your summer, huh?”
“Yeah. Finally. And you won’t be eating meat for the first three weeks of it.”
“Maybe we should go double or nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come up with another one,” I said. “See if I can solve it.”
“And you’ll go six weeks?”
“Or none.”
“If you solve it.”
“You mean when.”
“Yeah, right.”
“So is it a deal?”
“Okay, deal. I’ll text it to you.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Christie appeared, grabbed her purse, wished me a great day, gave me a kiss good-bye, and in a rush and a whirl they were out the door. And then they were gone.
A blunt silence enveloped the apartment in their wake.
Being on administrative leave without access to my office and not knowing what nine o’clock might bring, I wasn’t sure if I should stick around here or go out somewhere.
In the end, I figured that before anything else, I would sneak in a workout here at the apartment since this might be my only chance today to do so. I went with chair dips, sit-ups, push-ups, planks, and fingertip pull-ups on the doorframes—as much as I could with that gash in my arm from last week.
The same kind of workout prisoners do.
And that’s what was on my mind as I exercised—what it would have been like to do all this behind bars.
+++
Francis stared at the ceiling, trying to believe that what had happened last night had actually happened.
Skylar leaned up on her elbow and laid her other hand on his arm. “I don’t usually do this,” she said softly.
“Neither do I.”
He didn’t tell her that he’d never been with a woman before. He didn’t want her to think less of him, that he wasn’t a real man.
Maybe she would feel special if she knew she was the first one?
No! She didn’t say anything last night about you not knowing what you were doing. You don’t need to ruin things by bringing that up now.
They were adults, they liked each other, they’d each had, perhaps, a little too much to drink. And things had gone in a direction he’d never anticipated when he first invited her over for spaghetti.
That was it.
That’s what he told himself.
Sunlight eased in softly through the window and he knew that he needed to get going if he was going to make it to work on time, but he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to just stay right here by Skylar’s side and let the world outside circle around them, go on its way, and leave them alone.
Just the two of them.
Forever.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes.”
But she must have thought that he seemed distant. “Did I say something? Is something wrong?”
“No, no. Everything’s perfect.”
He looked past her and saw his closet where he’d stored the posters he’d taken down before she came over last night, and he thought of them and of secrets and of the things we keep hidden.
Maybe you should show them to her after breakfast?
Yes.
Definitely.
No more secrets.
Honesty is the best policy.
“I like you, Skylar. I feel like I can be myself with you.”
“Me too.”
So maybe he would be a few minutes late for work. It would be the first time in eight years.
He was probably long past due.
Skylar gave him a kiss. “I need to use the bathroom.”
She rolled over and slipped out of bed, then grabbed her clothes and disappeared down the hall.
Francis took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let himself smile.
He felt exhilarated and at peace and vulnerable and unconquerable. Somehow all of them, all at once.
It was going to be a busy day, getting everything ready for the donor banquet tonight, but it was also going to be a good day.
Maybe you can ask Skylar to come tonight? It’s probably not too late to get her an invitation. Just talk to Claire and—
There was a knock at the front door.
Francis sat up.
Why on earth would anyone be coming to his apartment at this time of day?
The knocking turned to pounding. “Open up!”
After tugging on his pants and slipping into a shirt, Francis went to the door and peered through the peephole. A fierce-looking man in his forties stood outside the threshold.
Francis latched the chain lock and eased the door open a crack. “Hello?”
The man threw himself violently against the door, and the meager chain that was holding it snapped. He burst into the room, shoving Francis to the side and then throwing the door shut behind him.
“Where is she?”
Francis scrambled to get in front of him. “There’s no one here,” he lied.
“Oh, I know she’s here. Where? The bedroom? Skylar!”
“I told you there’s no one here.”
She stepped out of the bathroom wearing her clothes from last night. “Ivan, you didn’t need to—”
The man went directly to her and punched her brutally in the face, sending her reeling backward and colliding into the wall.
She cried out, slid to the floor, and cowered by the bathroom doorway.
“Stop it!” Francis ran toward the man she’d just called Ivan and pushed him to make him stop hurting her. “Get away from her!”
Ivan seemed amused by Francis’s feeble attempts to get him to move.
Francis had never been in a fistfight
before. Though he’d been beaten up more than once when he was young, he’d never thrown a punch at anyone, and now as he swung at the man’s face, Ivan easily deflected his hand.
“Every time you hit me, I’ll hit her. Go ahead, see if I’m bluffing.”
“Don’t!” Skylar gasped, holding one hand against her face where Ivan had punched her. “He’ll do it.”
Francis stood there feeling helpless, unsure what to do. “Who are you?” he demanded, although he thought he might already know: her boyfriend.
Her husband?
No reply.
“I’ll call the police,” Francis threatened.
The man shook his head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Oh? And why not?” Francis knelt to help Skylar to her feet so he could lead her to the bedroom where his phone was, and where he could call 911.
As she stood she glared at Ivan. “Why did you hit me so hard?”
“It was the best way to make this believable.”
Francis looked from Ivan to Skylar, trying to process things, but he felt like he was one step behind whatever was happening. “What’s going on?”
“Francis,” Ivan said, “I’m going to need you to do something for me.”
“I’m not doing anything for you! You just attacked Skylar.”
“No. You did.”
“What?”
“You’re going to receive an email at work this afternoon. It has a link that you’re going to open. A file will download to your computer. When it does, all you have to do is open it. The algorithm will do the rest.”
“What are you talking about?”
“At work. At the ICSC today.”
Francis had that plunging feeling in his stomach again, just like he’d had on Monday when he saw that man chatting as graciousgirl4. “I don’t understand.”
“Francis, the firewalls at the International Child Safety Consortium are very good. The best way in wasn’t to breach the firewalls.” He pointed to Francis. “It was to breach you.”
“To breach me?”
“Last night you sexually assaulted a woman you barely knew after luring her to your apartment.”
“What? No, it was—”
“You were rough with her, you punched her in the face to keep her submissive.”
“I’m sorry, Francis.” Skylar went to stand next to Ivan. “It had to be like this.”
