The Arranger

by L. J. Sellers

  Camille had noticed the bleeding and his quietness, but he’d reassured her everything was all right. Paul hadn’t confronted her about her tryst with Morton, even when she gave him a semi-naked photo of the commissioner and said she’d spied on him to get it. Paul couldn’t risk losing her now when he was so close to making her happy.

  After traveling for twelve hours, including two transfers, he landed in Portland, Oregon late Friday afternoon. Walking out of the airport, a gust of warm dry air caressed his skin. Paul breathed a sigh of relief to be away from the searing heat and humidity of the capital. He rented a car and drove two hours to Eugene, then checked into a cheap motel on Highway 99. In the musty room, he lay down and slept for ten hours.

  The next morning, the rental car’s GPS took him up City View to Ridgemont, where he parked near the end of a long driveway. He checked his iCom: 10:17. The upscale neighborhood was sprawled on the side of a steep hill, thick with fir trees. In a different frame of mind, Paul might have enjoyed the change of pace from flat D.C., but this morning he was tightly focused. He took the Glock out of his travel bag, loaded it, and screwed on the silencer. The lesson he’d taken at the shooting range after buying supplies had taught him enough to carry out his plan. He checked his wig and mustache in the rearview mirror and they still looked fine.

  Paul felt hyper from the double dose of MetaboSlim he’d taken to overcome jetlag, but he wasn’t nervous or apprehensive. He just wanted to get past this episode, so he and Camille could be together. He thought he might start looking for a new job too, something more interesting, more physical than software management. His missions had been exhilarating, almost addictive, and now he thought he needed a more stimulating day job. Once Camille was employment commissioner, maybe he could get work at AmGo or on the Gauntlet.

  A silver car slowed in the road and signaled a turn. As it crossed in front of him, Paul noticed the man driving was younger and had lighter hair than Morton. What now? He decided his only choice was to wait for the visitor to leave. Immediately after, he would drive up to the house, knock on the door, and shoot Morton when he opened it. He hadn’t planned a daylight assault, but the seclusion of Morton’s home made it possible. He would have more time to return to Portland and possibly catch an earlier flight home.

  Paul waited an hour or so, driving around the block once to move the car to the other side of the road. At 12:05, the silver car exited the driveway. Paul watched it disappear, then started his rental and drove down the lane to Morton’s house.

  Surprised to find the front door unlocked, Paul walked in, weapon drawn. The high-ceiling living room was empty. As he started across, a voice called from a bedroom. “Richard? Is that you?”

  Paul moved down the hall toward the voice. Gun held out front, he stepped into the bedroom. Thaddeus Morton stood in front of the closet, dressed in black leather pants with no buttocks. The smell of sex hung in the air.

  The commissioner turned and his mouth fell open. “Oh fuck.”

  “Thaddeus Morton?”

  “Who are you? Are you Richard’s lover?” Morton fumbled with something in his hand.

  “Drop the iCom.”

  Morton let go of the device, and it hit the carpet with a tiny thump.

  It was time to squeeze the trigger, but Paul couldn’t do it. He was suddenly overwhelmed and confused. “Was that man your lover?”

  “Yes. Why? Who are you?” Morton’s voice pitched higher as he begged for answers.

  “Did you have sex with Camille Waterson?”

  “Oh fuck. Are you her boyfriend? I’m sorry.”

  “You’re bisexual?” Paul had never known a bisexual person, and the practice didn’t make any sense to him.

  “Look. I’m sorry about Camille, but she’s not worth shooting me over. It was just a thing because she’s so hot. You need to forget about her and move on. She’s not the faithful type.”

  “Shut up!” Paul didn’t want to hear it. Camille loved him. She just wasn’t as emotional as most women. She knew what she wanted and she went after it. He liked that about her. He’d become more like that too, and it had changed his life.

  “Please don’t kill me. I can help you. Do you want a better job? I can make that happen. I have influence.”

  “Not much longer.” Just shoot him, Paul thought. Just do it! But he wanted to know something. “Did Camille have an orgasm with you?”

  Morton blinked. “Yes.”

  Paul stepped forward. “What did it sound like?” He suspected Camille had been faking her pleasure with him.

  “Oh please.” Morton shook his head.

  “Tell me.” Paul raised the gun to the man’s face.

  “She was a little loud and sounded kind of hiccuppy.” Morton made a half-assed attempt to demonstrate, then abruptly stopped. “I don’t believe you really want to do this. Put the gun down and we’ll talk.”

  Just shoot him!

  Paul squeezed the trigger, surprised by the kick. Morton staggered back and clutched at his chest as he went down. Paul stared, mesmerized by the blood pouring through the prone man’s fingers. He’d just shot a man and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was Morton dying?

  Loud barking suddenly filled the back of the house. Paul jumped at the sound and started to run. As he left the bedroom, a giant black dog burst into the hallway and charged him. Instinctively, Paul ran for the exit, heart slamming like an overworked cylinder. He pushed out the front door and spotted a white medic van. No! Morton had made an emergency call before dropping his iCom, and the paramedic was standing there, staring at him like she was memorizing his face. Without thinking, Paul raised his gun and fired at her. She went down and he bolted for the rental car.

  He cranked the engine and raced out the driveway, anxious to be away from the scene of the crime. Good lord, what had he just done? His heart didn’t stop pounding until he was on the freeway, headed to the Portland airport.

  Chapter 34

  Sat., May 13, 6:07 a.m.

  Caden tried to slip out of bed without waking her, but Lara was a light sleeper and today was incredibly important. Thousands of Oregon jobs were at stake. She reached for him. “Are you going to work?”

  “Yes.” He rolled back and kissed her. “I have a meeting this morning with an FBI agent who might shed light on our assailant.”

  “Will I see you after the marathon?”

  “If I’m not making an arrest.”

  “I’d sure like to get this ankle monitor off before the race.”

  “I’ll call the DA again, but I’m not optimistic. Sorry, love.” Caden stroked her shoulder, then climbed out of bed.

  He’d called her love. It didn’t mean anything, she told herself, just a speech pattern left over from his southern upbringing. Lara watched him dress, enjoying the sight of his thick muscled body. It was good she was leaving tomorrow. She’d become too attached for what was supposed to be a fling.

  After he left, she dozed for a while, then got up and made coffee. The marathon started at nine-thirty, but she needed to look over the route again and get in a good warm-up. A knot of anxiety twisted in her gut. She could run twenty-six miles, no problem, and she could sprint short distances as fast as any other non-Olympian, but her marathon time was not good enough to beat Makil.

  She currently had a small lead from winning the Obstacle, but the person who crossed the finish line first today would earn 50 points and likely win the Gauntlet. She could earn 25 points for finishing the run and additional points from the viewers, but she would need ninety percent of the final vote to earn all 25 extra points. That wasn’t possible. No competitor had ever received more than sixty-eight percent of the vote for any single event. She’d been lucky with the extra voter points so far, but the marathon wouldn’t give her a chance to excel.

  As Lara showered and dressed, the knot grew tighter. The race took place out on the neighborhood streets. Except for the flight here, she hadn’t been out in public without her gun in more than a decade.
The idea of running along public roads for more than two hours without a weapon filled her with dread. Knowing Blondie was still out there, gunning for her, heightened her fear. Lara didn’t know if she could do it. She made a protein and fruit drink, but couldn’t consume it yet. After a minute of pacing, she went next door to see Minda.

  Lara knocked, remembering when the director tried to confiscate her Taser. She feared this would not go well. No sound came from inside so she called out, “It’s Lara Evans. I have to talk to you.”

  A minute passed. Lara started to knock again, but the door came open. Minda was dressed in her usual black skirt, but her feet were bare. The director snapped, “Make it fast, I have a lot to do before the race starts in an hour.”

  “Can I come in for a moment?”

  Minda rolled her eyes but stepped back to let Lara come through, then took a seat behind her desk. “What is it?”

  “I’m concerned about my safety today. I believe the man who killed Kirsten meant to kill me, and he’s still out there.”

  “That sounds a little paranoid. I haven’t heard any police reports that support your theory.”

  “Detective Harper will vouch for it.”

  Minda furrowed her brow. “What do you want me to do? The marathon will be run today, with or without you. It’s only fair to the viewers and other contestants.”

  “I want to carry a gun while I run.”

  Minda started to interrupt but Lara talked over her. “The rules say no weapons in the arena, but I won’t be in the arena. I have a constitutional right to carry a firearm while I’m out on the streets.”

  “You brought a gun to the contest?” Minda looked stunned.

  “Contact the commissioner. I believe he’ll support my position.”

  “No. Just no. You’ll have a cameraman with you during the whole race. I’ll alert him to watch out.”

  “Will he be armed?”

  The director pressed her red lips together. “No.”

  “Then I have to be. Text the commissioner.” Lara stayed on her feet. She needed every advantage.

  Minda shook her head. “If you choose not to compete under my terms, so be it. We’ll run the marathon with only two competitors.”

  “The commissioner won’t allow that, the viewers will complain, and it will hurt the pay-per-views.”

  Minda glared, then turned to her NetCom and keyed in a message. After a long moment of silence, the director’s tattooed eyebrows puckered. “He’s working at home today, but he’s granted your request.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You must keep the weapon concealed.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ve been a royal pain in the ass, and I’ll be glad when this year’s Gauntlet is over.”

  Lara bit her tongue and walked away.

  Twenty minutes later, she hurried out of the hotel, ready to catch her last shuttle ride to the arena. Her competitors were nowhere in sight. The air was a little cooler today, maybe only eighty-five, and she heaved a sigh of relief. The first hurricane of the season had come ashore in Georgia that morning and was headed north. Clouds formed on the horizon and threatened rain. She hoped it did come down. The rain would feel like running at home in Oregon. She touched her 9-milliter under her loose-fitting tank top and boarded the shuttle. She would be glad when this whole thing was over.

  The driver dropped her off in the center of the main parking lot, where a crowd of media and race attendants had gathered. Lara participated in two brief interviews, then took her spot on the white line. Three cameramen, each in their own battery-operated cart, lined up behind the runners. In addition to filming, they would supply the contestants with sports drinks and keep them updated on their time and progress. Minda and her entourage were in a large golf-cart type vehicle. They would supply the viewers with streaming commentary, or babble, as Lara thought of it.

  She looked over at Jason, thinking he would probably start the race too fast, eager to be out in front. She would let him run ahead, and when he slowed at the midpoint, she would pass him. Makil and his long legs would likely take the lead and keep it, so she couldn’t pace herself to him. Would she have enough juice in the end to pass him and win? Either way, she had to finish and earn as many viewer points as she could.

  A starter pistol went off and the whole circus show charged forward.

  Once they were through the gates, they passed the hotel, nearby restaurants, and retail stores. They ran along what used to be a wide airport access, with their cameramen rolling along behind. The now-private road had little traffic except for reporters leaving the property. Makil set a strong pace and Jason pushed to stay directly behind him. Lara suppressed her competitive impulses and ran at her own speed, letting the men pull ahead.

  Every five minutes, her cameraman shouted her time and distance in a friendly update. Nick was heavyset, thirty-something, and had forearm tattoos and curly hair. She wanted to tell him not to bother, but it was his job and she let him do it. They passed over the George Washington Parkway and, moments later, a cluster of railroad tracks. It was Saturday and the traffic below was light. Most people were home watching the event on their NetComs. Lara tried not to think about the millions of viewers witnessing her sweat and breathe through her mouth in the heat and humidity.

  On the other side of the congestion, they ran along 25th, passing nice homes with tree-filled yards. The sun beat down, and wind bombarded her from the south, but Lara felt strong. At first, she watched every vehicle that drove down the street and listened for traffic behind her. Eventually, she started to relax. It seemed unlikely the shooter would come after her in such a public way.

  At the Grant intersection, she spotted an old white Toyota in the road waiting to make a left turn. The driver had shaggy light-colored hair and a mustache. She ran past the vehicle and stared inside. It was Blondie!

  She glanced back and watched him make the turn. He looked preoccupied and hadn’t seemed to notice her. Did he live in this neighborhood? A moment later, it hit her. The commissioner lived in this area. Blondie was on his way to try and kill Morton again. Oh christ! She had to warn the commissioner or stop it somehow.

  “I need a favor,” she called back to Nick. “Text the employment commissioner and tell him Blondie is coming.”

  “What?”

  Lara turned to face him as she ran. “I just saw someone who’s a threat to the commissioner. I need you to let Morton know.”

  “I can’t send messages for you. You know that. Don’t mess with me. I need this job.”

  He thought she was trying to cheat somehow. Crap. The commissioner’s house was only a mile or so away. Lara made a decision. She stopped, turned around, and started back toward the corner.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Nick drove his cart up on the sidewalk to follow her.

  “The commissioner’s house. He’s in danger.”

  “You must be serious if you’re willing to blow off this marathon and a shot at the grant money!” Nick shouted to be heard over the noise of a passing vehicle.

  Lara turned on Grant Street and picked up her pace. “Text Morton now!”

  “I don’t have his private number.”

  “Get it from Minda.”

  “She won’t answer her iCom while she’s broadcasting.”

  Lara tried to remember the number she’d called, but it felt scrambled. “Try 541-628-2028.” It was hard to talk while sprinting.

  A few seconds later, Nick yelled back, “That was a tavern.”

  She made another guess, but it was hard to think straight.

  “That’s not it either.”

  The Toyota had disappeared. She remembered her earlier trip to Morton’s house after he bailed her out of jail. “Where is Frontier Street from here?”

  “I think we go left at Grove.”

  She visualized the online map she’d studied and the turn seemed correct. “Contact the D.C. police. Ask for Detective Harper. If he’s not available, tell them to
send a patrol car.”

  At the corner, Nick yelled, “What’s the address?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s in the middle of Frontier.” She was only a few blocks away and would get there in minutes. Blondie was probably turning down the street now. Lara pushed herself to run faster.

  She heard Nick explaining the situation and realized the police were skeptical about wasting their resources. Thank god she had her gun. The thought of aiming a weapon at an armed suspect brought back a devastating memory she’d spent years trying to forget. Lara tried to suppress it, but the scene played out in her mind in full detail as she ran the last block.

  She’d been called out to a homicide in the Bethel area. A father had come home to find his teenage daughter dead, her skull crushed. Lara had been given the lead and two other detectives were on site to help process the scene and question neighbors. After a couple of hours, the chaos started to settle down. The medical examiner took the body away, and the patrol cops returned to the streets. Detective Schakowski had gone to question the neighbors, and Detective Quince went to the girl’s bedroom to look through her personal items.

  Lara sat down at the kitchen table with the father and began to interrogate him again. He’d been too shell-shocked earlier to provide much information. After a few minutes, she asked, “When did you arrive at home?”

  “A little after four.”

  “Earlier you said you came home at four-thirty.”

  “It was somewhere in there.”

  “Your 911 call was logged at 5:12. What did you do between the time you arrived and the time you made the call?”

  “Nothing! I was in shock. I called 911.”

  His anger was unexpected. “Please calm down. I have to establish a timeline. Are you saying you sat in the house with her dead body for forty minutes?”

  “No. We’ve been over this!”