Kingfish

by Frank Perry

It was the most relaxed he’d felt in days. He needed to sleep and would enjoy a few hours before Laura came for dinner. His calmness and tranquility lasted only minutes as the car went underground again nearing the Pentagon. He knew the risk he was taking now with Peña. He couldn’t control it; there was no way he could kill it. Hell, he couldn’t even help it succeed. The process had a new momentum that he’d started almost a year ago. He had no way to predict that Blithe would do an about-face. If he had done anything at all, it was giving Stubb’s name to Amy Letourneau. Peña wouldn’t know that. Hunter really had nothing to do with these events now. But Luciano Peña wasn’t a tolerant man. He was a distorted monster. People like that are unpredictable, or maybe they’re totally predictable. Hunter would need to prepare, but right now he needed to rest.

  As he exited the King Street Station in the early afternoon, he slowly scanned the parking lot and the streets converging at the station. He looked at the pedestrians and even looked at the office and hotel windows nearby. Nothing seemed out of place. There was no refinement in Peña’s methods. He used common street thugs, ex-felons to do his dirty work. The two attackers that came at him days earlier stood out like a frog in a punchbowl. Nothing alarmed him as he proceeded down the street to his apartment.

  When he got to his bed, he dropped his clothes on the floor and collapsed. If his phone rang, he wouldn’t hear it. He slept soundly until conditions changed. The sun was going down, and it was dark in his bedroom. He glanced at his watch – seven. Where was Laura? His mobile phone was sitting on the counter in the kitchen. There were no missed calls. He called her number, but she didn’t answer. Peña’s warnings resonated in his memory. He wasn’t sure what to do. Should he go to her place or stay? What if she came and he was gone? He tried her number again. He tried it every few minutes for an hour. He called work. He called her boss, Buzz Finney, at work. They were all gone. He grabbed his keys and drove to her apartment in Arlington. She wasn’t there.

  He tried calling Claire. She didn’t answer her home phone or her mobile phone. He called her office and went to voicemail. He felt completely isolated. In desperation, he called another number. He answered, “Richards.”

  “John, it’s Hunter.”

  Richard’s tone was level and firm. “Well, Hunter. I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

  “John, she’s not answering any of her phones.”

  “Claire?”

  “Yes, Claire. Look, some things have happened here in Washington. She could be in danger. If you really care for her at all, she might need your help.”

  “Okay, Hunter. Look, I’m late for a flight, but I’ll drive by her place on the way to the airport. I wouldn’t panic over some missed calls.”

  Richards made it sound like it was no more serious than a trip to the grocery store. “John, please. She’s in danger. Please help.”

  “Okay, Hunter. Gotta go, bye.”

  The line went dead before he could say anything else. Had he just made things worse? Richards could be part of Peña’s underworld. He didn’t seem worried at all.

  Hunter couldn’t leave Laura and fly back to California again. This was insane. He felt isolated, unable to help people he loved. He needed to take action, but where, against whom? He had a miserable night worrying. He called his two women throughout the night. He even called the police precinct near Claire’s home for a wellness check. They reported no one home and no sign of forced entry. Claire and the kids were gone! On a long shot, he called the Flannigans. They had their own grief that was building worse each day that Sue Ann was missing, but he had to see if Claire was with them. They hadn’t heard from her either. He didn’t panic, there was no threat on him at the moment, but he was frustrated – furious that a monster like Peña could just rip his family apart. The only solace that night was his fictional plan for Peña and his family. An eye for an eye was fair. He would never be able to hurt innocent people, but the thought of revenge eased his anxiety.

  Earlier, while Hunter was sleeping, Laura left the FAA building at five o’clock, heading to his apartment. She had become more cautious and checked her surroundings constantly. There were tourists and professional people congesting the sidewalk as she walked to the Metro. At one point, the crowd had dissipated somewhat, and she looked behind her. There were two men in business suits walking side by side ten feet behind. Something about their cadence, in sync with hers, was alarming.

  She looked forward, processing the image of the men behind. She altered course, crossing on to the mall (the giant grass park spanning a block wide from the Lincoln Memorial to the Capitol) and walking away from the Metro. She glanced sideways and could see both men in the same relative position. There weren’t many people walking across the grass, but there were enough that she figured the Park Police would be somewhere in view. Where were they? The men weren’t going away!

  She walked faster, and the men closed the distance behind her. Her pulse raced, and she was perspiring, wishing that Hunter was with her, or even Buzz would be comforting. She was alone and had to do something, she had to act. She reached in her purse and grasped her cell phone, fumbling to dial nine one one. She didn’t want to go beyond the middle of the mall, making it more difficult for the men to get her to a car along the parallel streets. She stopped and turned to confront them. “I have mace in my purse, and I’ve called the police!”

  In California in the early afternoon, Claire had both kids in her car as she pulled into her driveway after work. His car was parked at the curb. John was waiting for her. She stopped by the front door, quickly unlocking it and pushing the children inside before confronting him. “John!”

  The following morning, Hunter hadn’t slept well. He dozed on the couch, trying to figure out what to do. The FBI had been useless until now and would only get the police involved. They wouldn’t do anything for forty-eight hours. He decided to call Laura’s parents. It was a desperation move and would probably end his chances with her once he explained the danger he placed her in. But he needed to do everything possible to locate her and save her if he could. He needed a shower to clear his thoughts and ran the water. He felt helpless.

  After finishing and dressing, he was about to dial the Malones when there was a knock at the door. It was a man’s knock, a powerful knock. He wished he had a weapon. Looking through the peep hole, two men in suits stood outside. Either Peña had new higher-caliber assassins or this was something else. He opened the door cautiously, and the front man actually stepped back slightly, reducing the threat. Hunter asked, “Can I help you?”

  “Mr. Kohl?”

  “Yes.”

  “May we show you some identification, sir?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Both men pulled badge holders from their coat pockets. “Mr. Kohl, we’d like you to come downtown (Washington DC) with us.”

  He sat in the back of the dark Suburban for the twenty-minute drive into the training building on Murray Drive in DC. The United States Secret Service doesn’t maintain a defined headquarters location, but was assumed to be located in the Executive Office Building next to the White House. The mission of the USSS is complex, most obviously involved in protective services, but that is only a small part of the overall mission. Their broader mission is to safeguard the nation's financial infrastructure and payment systems to preserve the integrity of the economy, and to protect national leaders, visiting heads of state and government, designated sites and National Special Security Events.

  Security at Murray Place was high, but the agents in the front of the vehicle were waived through without stopping. They parked under the unmarked building and took the elevator to the third floor. Hunter was escorted to a large expensively furnished office complete with an entertainment wall, floor to ceiling windows with interesting vibration devices and hurricane shutters, and flags positioned on either side of the credenza. The name on the door said
Deputy Director J. Paul Fleming.

  He was left alone after one of the Special Agents brought him his first black coffee of the day. The office door was closed. There were numerous certificates and citations framed on the wall behind him, and he stood to look more closely when the door opened, and he entered. Hunter nearly dropped his coffee. “John!”

  They shook hands. Hello, Hunter. Surprised?” John was smiling.

  “John, I don’t get it. Who’s Paul Fleming?”

  John smiled, gesturing Hunter to sit while he went behind the desk for the oversized executive chair. “He’s me. Although, I haven’t used the moniker much lately.”

  Hunter was astonished. “You’re Secret Service?”

  “I’ve spent most of my career here, Hunter.”

  “John, what’s going on? Should I call you John or Paul?”

  “Call me either. I’ve been Paul in the Service, but John to my friends. It’s kind of a lawyer thing I didn’t want; I’ve never practiced law in the traditional sense, but the bureaucracy likes to use middle names when JD shows up behind your name.”

  “John, this is all a mystery to me. What’s going on? I’m worried about Claire, I’m worried about my fiancée.”

  “Rest on that, Hunter. They’re under the care of the USSS, safe