by Deek Rhew
* * *
Lisa leaned her back against the door, pausing to think about the cold beers Susan had pulled from the car. She slipped off her shoes and started down the shadowed hallway, nylon-clad feet whispering on cool linoleum. She had taken only a few steps, the odd smell just registering in her exhausted mind, when she flipped on the entryway light.
A small spark in the cheap, ancient chandelier ignited the gas that had been filling the house all afternoon. The resulting explosion vaporized the skin from Lisa’s body as it slammed her back into the closed front door. A wave of heat from the trailing fireball liquefied the underlying flesh then began to turn her bones to ash. Later, there wouldn’t be enough of her left for a DNA sample, though agents wouldn’t believe they needed one to make a positive ID.
The blast lifted the little bungalow’s roof, intact. It hovered a few inches above the studs for several seconds, riding a wave of heat and flame. When it came back down, it crushed the already weakened and crumbling walls, and the entire structure collapsed in on itself.
* * *
The force of the explosion shoved the car to the bottom of its struts, driving Susan into the concrete, almost crushing her. The oppressive weight of the vehicle felt as though someone had dropped a piano on her back. After the initial blast, the weight of the car lessened, and Susan wriggled out from underneath it.
She stood staring in disbelief at the destruction of the place she had, begrudgingly, called home. She remained paralyzed for a full minute by the overwhelming sadness that her friend had been inside when the house blew up.
She shook her head, trying to clear the buzzing in her ears. The sound from the blast had almost deafened her. What rang clear: someone had just tried to kill her. If she didn’t get out of there, another message like it would arrive in short order. This time, she doubted they’d miss.
This was what the FBI had been trying to protect her from.
She looked at the hulk of burned out metal that, up until a few minutes ago, had been a 1992 Subaru wagon. The car bore the brunt of the violence, becoming her unlikely savior. If she hadn’t been under it, she would have been killed. Grateful for the little Japanese vehicle that had protected her, she nevertheless had been left without a means of escape.
She tried to look around, but the fumes and intense heat burned her eyes, making them itch. When she tried to rub them, she almost jabbed herself in the face. The key. She still had Lisa’s key. Monica ran across the street, climbed into the Audi, and drove back to the office.
Fearful to turn on the lights and draw attention to herself, she picked her way to the rear corner where Lisa kept the safe. Her hands shook so hard she mis-entered the combination twice. Before trying again, she forced herself to take a deep breath, willing her rattled nerves to settle down. Three incorrect entries and the safety mechanism disabled the keypad for fifteen minutes. She’d be forced to wait.
She punched in the ten-digit code again. Relief flooded through her as the little indicator light changed from red to green. Monica opened the door and stuffed the cash, company checkbook, and company credit card into her purse. She closed the safe and locked the front door before climbing back into the Audi and speeding off into the night.
* * *
FBI Investigative Report
Entry #0908.7
Reporting Agent: Hale Lenski
Fire crews arrived on the scene but were unable to prevent the complete loss of Ms. Rosenberg’s house. They sprayed down the surrounding terrain in an attempt to keep the fire from spreading to other dwellings. Efforts that proved largely successful, although a nearby abandoned structure to the east received minimal smoke damage.
Fire chief Ryan Zyresk, of the Walberg Volunteer Fire Department, had been cited as saying, “There was no need to waste valuable resources trying to save something that clearly isn’t worth the effort.” The blaze seemed to be started by a gas leak, though it is unclear what triggered the explosion itself.
* * *
FBI Investigative Report
Entry #0908.7.2
Reporting Agent: Hale Lenski
It is possible that Lisa Bunder may be a witness. Interviews with members of the community, including Mary Beth Sanders, reported that Ms. Bunder and her husband were having marital disputes and had been witnessed in “screaming matches” on their front lawn. It is the opinion of said witness that Ms. Bunder saw the explosion and “simply drove away.” Attempts to reach Ms. Bunder have been unsuccessful. Ms. Bunder is not considered a suspect at this time.
* * *
FBI Inquisition Investigation
Entry #8812.7
Official Disciplinary Action
…it is therefore found that Hale Lenski is guilty of egregious breaches of protocol and procedure, resulting in the loss of a valuable and key resource. He has been formally held responsible for failure to perform his basic duties. This failure resulted in the death of the person under his protection. He is to receive a suspension from duties for no less than one year, during which time a formal hearing will be held to determine if he can be reinstated or will be permanently dismissed…
PART 2
12
Four days earlier
The phone rang at just past six in the evening. Angel Humbolt sat eating dinner, alone. Again. “Thanksgiving Feast” from the freezer and Wheel of Fortune on the boob tube. This dinner-and-movie combo had become such a regular part of her routine that she now associated Vanna White and Pat Sajak’s awful toupee—could that possibly be his real hair?—with watery gravy and the smell of scorched aluminum.
The faded-blue wall phone rang a second time. She debated: talk to her mother who, for whatever reason, always called during dinner, or rate the intelligence of the game show contestants—were they smart enough to figure out Declaration of Independence was the answer to the puzzle?
“W,” Nancy, the perky homemaker from Philadelphia, said.
Nope, apparently not. Loser. Seriously, where did they find these yahoos? She would rock this show if she were on it.
Six rings now. Only two more before the answering machine did the job for her.
What to do, what to do?
Angel didn’t have to actually talk to her mother, whom she loved more than life itself but who drove her completely bonkers, to be able to tick off everything that would be discussed, point by agonizing point. Each of these conversations made her feel as though she had cracked open her diary and re-read the worst, most depressing chapters over and over and over.
Are you seeing anyone? Have you considered giving up the grocery job for school and getting a real job like your brother? You know he just got promoted (again) to x—fill in the blank of Richard’s astounding career. I’m not getting any younger, and neither are you, for that matter. Tick, tick, tick, dear. I would love to meet my only daughter’s children before I go spend eternity with the good Lord in Heaven.
Emphasis on the word “daughter’s” since Prince Richard had already given their mother three “little cherubs.”
Gag.
She had no new answers to give during these inquisitions, and none appeared to be forthcoming in the near future.
Her mom, an expert manipulator, knew every inch of Angel’s mental blueprint. With the precision of a reverse bomb squad technician, she dexterously used her knowledge to cross the wires of doubt and push the buttons of guilt, twisting her daughter’s thoughts and emotions until Angel thought she would scream in frustration.
On the rare occasions when Angel called her out on these devious bids at mental domination, Mrs. Humbolt would deny any knowledge of wrongdoing. “I am just expressing my concerns because I love you, honey, and I don’t want to see you waste your life.”
Jab. Twist. Parry.
The bitch about it, the thing that just sucked so bad, was her mom had a point. Angel, who’d just finished her shift at the market, also wondered how long this position could be referred to as “tempo
rary.”
Against her parents’ objections, Angel had dropped out of college. It just wasn’t her thing. She’d needed time to find herself; plus, she had plans. Big plans.
This part of her life should have been a gateway to something more fulfilling, a transition to a promising career, a family, and the whole nuclear package. But almost five years later, she still worked at the same crappy place, lived in the same dumpy apartment, hung with the same loser friends, and hadn’t done a thing toward achieving her life goals. Of course, before she could go about achieving her goals, she first had to figure out what said goals were.
Okay, maybe she didn’t have plans—not quite. More accurately she had plans to have plans. Maybe she just needed to meet someone to get her life on track?
She looked at the phone again. Sighing, she reached for it. “Hello.”
“Hi, my name is Tom Phillips. I’m looking for Monica.” The male voice, so not what she’d expected, stunned her, making it necessary for her to go back and replay his words in her mind.
Angel stiffened. “Monica isn’t here. Who did you say you were?”
“Tom. Tom Phillips.” He hesitated. “I went to NYU with her, and she stayed in the spare bedroom of my apartment. Well, at least she did until she disappeared. When we wrapped up the fall semester, I figured she’d transferred or dropped. People do that. Get burned out and quit, or change to a school that’s less...academically stressful. Though, she had straight A’s, and really, school didn’t seem very difficult for her…so that doesn’t make sense…”
He took a deep breath before continuing, “Anyway, I thought, okay, maybe she’s just avoiding me. It’s a big school and all. But there are a couple of required courses that are only offered this spring, so I figured I’d at least get to see her then. But class started last week and so far no Monica. I checked around, and no one’s seen her in months. When she moved out, she left a note saying she’d found somewhere else to stay. Thanks and goodbye. That’s it. No forwarding address, no nothing. But it’s less like she moved on and more like she dropped off the face of the Earth.” He sounded perplexed. “I can’t find her anywhere, and, well, she told me you were her best friend, and I was wondering if you could help me.”
The hopeful, optimistic timbre in his words seemed genuine, but Angel would never just turn her friend over like that. Not to a stranger; not on the phone; not to anyone. “Look, it’s Tom, right? I don’t know where she is. I haven’t seen her in a long time. So, I really can’t help you.”
“Oh,” he said, the hope deflating from his voice like air escaping from a ruptured tire. “So you have no idea what happened?”
“No.”
“Maybe if we put our heads together we can figure this out? Somebody must be in contact with her, right?” He paused for a few heartbeats. “I’m...I’m just worried something happened.”
“Why are you looking for her?” Tom hesitated, and it dawned on Angel why he’d called. “Oh. My. God. You’re a freaking stalker! Damn, I told her she’d meet crazies in New York. Look psycho boy”—her voice had gone icy—“you’d better back the hell off.”
“No. No. No, nothing like that. I guess I can see your point. But it isn’t like that at all.”
He hadn’t convinced her, but when she spoke again, she let her voice thaw, only a little. She wanted the chilly undertone to convey her skepticism. “Start talking, NYU boy, you have two minutes before I call the cops.”
She needed to sound in charge of the situation, but if Tom knew anything about the town, he could call her bluff. Stoner Sheriff Austin wouldn’t do shit about a phone call.
“Look, I can be accused of being a lot of things, a dumb-ass weakling, a moron, whatever, but not a stalker. We had some classes together, and like I said, she lived with me. We, you know, hung out, and I wanted to ask her out, but the girl was seriously heads down. I was pretty sure she would tell me no. She wasn’t interested in going to parties, or having fun, or any of the things you’re supposed to do in college. So I took the long approach, you know, being friends and getting to know her, hoping for my chance. She would spend time with me because I’m straight A’s too, and, well, like I said, we occasionally hung out if you catch my drift. At first, I think she only tolerated my company because she needed someplace to stay. After some late nights though, her defenses came down, and we started talking. Really talking. She told me about her childhood and what happened with her folks. She was warming up to me, and we were getting close. You know what I mean?”
Angel did. In fact, she had talked to her friend at great length about how hard Monica had been working at keeping people away. Angel had tried, in vain, to get her to cool it a bit and have a little fun. But she might as well have been speaking Martian for all the good it did.
She didn’t answer, but she also didn’t hang up. Tom must have taken that as a sign of encouragement. “So anyway, I could tell her anything, and she didn’t pass judgment. I have come from, oh, let’s just say, a rough childhood too, and she totally got me. Some of the stories she told me about her life...” He trailed off. “Seriously, taking down that slime in L.A. with the Louisville Slugger? I had one of those growing up, but…damn.”
A tear welled up in Angel’s eye. “Yeah,” she said, her voice not much more than a whisper, “she had a rough go of it for a while.”
“I know, and somewhere in all that time I was spilling my guts, I fell for her. It’s way more than just sex. We were making love, you know? Don’t know when exactly I developed feelings for her, but it kinda surprised me. Maybe I’m just a sucker for hard-luck cases? After she was gone, there was this hole in my life, and I knew that I would regret it if I didn’t take the chance and tell her.”
“I don’t think she’s ready to settle down, Tom.”
“Oh, I know. Believe me. I think she has some serious demons, but I also think I understand where her mind is. Well, at least where it was before she disappeared.” He didn’t say anything for a minute.
Angel thought she heard a hitch in his breath, and over the line, her heart went out to him.
Finally, he continued, “Look, I don’t know what’s going on. She just vanished. She was there one day and gone the next. Just like that, packed up her stuff and disappeared without a word. She didn’t say why or where she was going. I have to at least know if something happened. Maybe something with her mom? I have to make sure she’s okay.”
“You really care about her, don’t you?”
“Yes. I miss her, and I want to see her. But I at least need to know she’s okay.”
“She’s fine,” Angel admitted in a whisper. “Something happened. I can’t tell you what or where she is, but I can pass on whatever message you want.”
“Oh, thank god!” The relief in his voice palpable. “But what’s with all the secrecy?”
“Sorry, that’s just the way it is.”
“Well, I suppose if I don’t have any other choice.”
“What?”
“I really want to have the chance to tell her myself. I should have told her already.”
Angel remained quiet as she debated, then came to a decision. “All right, look, something happened in New York, and she had to leave. I can’t tell you the details; I swore I wouldn’t. I won’t give you her phone number, but I can’t see the harm in giving you her email. You send her a message, and she can call you if she wants. That’s the best I can do.”
He let out a huge, relieved breath. “That would be fantastic.”
“Okay, hold on, her address is totally bizarre.” She fumbled through her purse until she found the old and creased slip of paper. “Here it is.” Angel read off the random letters and numbers.
“Okay, let me make sure I’ve got it.” He read it back to her.
She corrected him, “‘Zd’ not ‘dz.’”
“Thank you so much! You’re an amazing friend.”
She hung up, guilt tugging on her heart for betraying Monica
’s trust. Angel had promised, sworn she would never under any circumstances give out that email address.
But the situation justified her actions, didn’t it? How could Monica know that someone like Tom, who sounded amazing, wanted to be part of her life? Angel could sense his kindness and genuine heart. If Mon trusted him with her deepest darkest secrets, Angel could too.
She had done the right thing; she could feel it in her bones. Mon could be mad at her now, then later ask her to be a bridesmaid when the two of them got married.
Angel smiled.
13
At a secluded table in an outdoor cafe, hundreds of miles from New York University, Sam Bradford, a.k.a. Tom Phillips, smiled as he disconnected the call.
Got ya.
After the months of tedium, monotonous gathering of information, and tracking her movements, he finally had his first real lead. Score one for the Agency’s Rules. In this case:
Rule #11:
Do your homework; always know more than everyone else.
“Cunning and intelligence are no substitute for diligence and hard work. The smartest individual can be made impotent by ignorance. The most feebleminded can persevere over stronger, better-equipped foes, given enough—and the correct application—of the right information. Know all about those around you and rule them unequivocally.”
—122 Rules of Psychology
He had run into dead end after dead end. Finally, he stopped and envisioned himself back at The Agency. During his training, when he found himself floundering, his primary instructor, Dr. Wergent, would admonish, “Samuel, stop. What you are doing is not working. Do you not see that? The Rules. What do the Rules tell you?”
It had been almost a decade, but he still remembered the practical lessons of drifting through society as a ghost: obtaining fake documents, avoiding the police, leaving no trace of himself wherever he went. But his core curriculum had focused on the human psyche.
