Realm of Shadows

by Eldon Farrell

  “I’m not going,” Larry states outright drawing a glare from Charles.

  “As senior staff,” Charles dictates, “One of you will have to lead the team to placate Reinhold.”

  “Who?” Evelyn wonders.

  With a weak grin Charles tips his chin saying, “Whoever has the time.”

  Chapter 4

  Washington, D.C.

  Sunlight peeks around the edges of the drawn shade to dapple the blanket lain across the foot of the bed. The room is quiet save the gentle sounds of relaxed breathing.

  With a contented sigh Tyler Edlund turns in bed. He is caught in that in-between space where he is not quite awake or entirely asleep. His mind clutches at the fading and wispy images of his comforting dreams while the last vestiges of the night slip from the moment to become memory.

  A shrill noise abruptly intrudes into the warm cocoon of silence surrounding him.

  Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

  The intrusion to him is as piercing as an air raid siren going off and is just as unsettling. His heart seizes as a panic overruns his dream; the real world is bearing down on him.

  Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

  “…somebody get the phone…”

  Hearing the muffled voice inside his head he can’t be sure if he actually heard it or if he just imagined hearing it. Opening his eyes a crack, he hears nothing more and concludes that it must’ve been a dream.

  Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

  Through his hazy vision he sees his mobile phone vibrating across the surface of the night stand next to the bed. With groggy fingers he reaches out to grab hold of it. Slowly he brings it to his ear mumbling, “Um…hello?”

  “You’re so dead.”

  The refined voice—vividly placed in his memory—snaps his eyes open and brings him to full alert. “Sir.”

  “You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.” Harris Anwar, his mentor at NOAA♦ rebukes him.

  Swinging his legs out of bed Tyler searches the floor for his pants while trying to remain calm. “I’m almost there,” he lies. Keeping the phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, he hops on one foot while pulling his pants on adding, “I can see the building now.”

  “Right,” Harris doubts, “So that wasn’t sleep I just heard in your voice? Tell me, what was her name last night?”

  “Sir I…” he trails off as he takes a good look at his surroundings. This isn’t my place.

  His eyes drift back to the bed where he sees a blond woman sleeping peacefully on her side. The blanket over her mostly covers her shape, though has bunched up in an enticing spot to reveal one of her long, tan legs.

  Suddenly he can remember the party last night and leaving with her to come here. Her name however remains elusive.

  “There was no woman,” he fibs with a staccato shiver in his voice as he slides one arm into his shirt. “Sir I have to let you go, I’m arriving at the building right now.”

  “You better be,” Harris says before ending the call.

  Shit!

  Tyler pockets his phone and finishes dressing. For a second he considers waking the woman from last night but decides he doesn’t really have the time for any explanations or introductions—since he still has no clue as to her name—and so he just leaves her sleeping.

  With one backward glance he snatches his jacket from the back of a chair and hurries from the room. Dashing downstairs and out the front door he finds his bicycle in the back of what he presumes is her pickup truck.

  Recognizing 7th Street Northwest he crosses himself while mumbling that there is a god. Inserting the earbuds for his iPod, he grabs his bike and begins pedaling for his life to the tune of The Cure singing about Friday’s.

  Heading straight down 7th, he sticks to the red-brick sidewalks to avoid the clogged traffic that’s barely moving between the towering buildings on both sides of the street.

  Reaching the intersection with Pennsylvania Avenue he glances over at the pillared frontage of the National Archives Building before weaving through the juncture to the blaring of car horns. Sheepishly waving at the angered motorists he carries on.

  At Constitution he turns hard to the right and jumps back onto the wide sidewalks. Breezing past a beat cop who waves a fist at him, he continues pedaling all out.

  Past 9th street he overtakes a red double-decker tourist bus of the type found in London and waves to the occupants as he speeds on by. Checking his watch, he rises in the seat and pumps his legs faster.

  On his left the National Museum of Natural History flies past, its architecture like that of most Washington buildings—flat brick, pillars, and an American flag blowing on the roof.

  Crossing 10th street he nearly collides with a taxi cab and is again serenaded by an angry car horn. Ignoring his frightened heart he pushes on toward the corner of 14th street and his destination.

  Jumping off the bike while braking hard to a stop outside the NOAA building, he quickly chains the bike up to the rack out front. His boyish face is drenched in sweat from the exertion of his ride. Panting heavily he wipes the back of his hand across his forehead dislodging the strands of his wavy brown hair that had become matted to his skin.

  Clipping the lock in place he hurries to the front door while yanking the earbuds out of his ears. He has the powerful legs of a marathon runner evident by his calf muscles pressing tightly against the denim of his blue jeans.

  He gives his light brown golf shirt the quick sniff test to see if he still passes muster before he slips inside the glass door. All he can smell is the usual scent of sand and saltwater—a result of so much time spent at the beach—where he also got the healthy bronze hue to his skin.

  “Nice of you to join us today Tyler.”

  His vibrant blue eyes lift up upon hearing Harris, who is standing in the middle of the lobby. “Arriving at the building now huh?” Harris digs at him.

  Lowering his chin Tyler smiles sheepishly revealing the small chip in his left eye tooth. “Got tied up in traffic?” he tries.

  “You ride a bicycle.”

  “Foot traffic?”

  Exasperated, Harris simply shakes his head. He has dark, foreboding eyes that always seem to be seriously considering one thing or another, glistening black hair, brown skin, and a willowy figure, though his most notable feature remains the full beard that today appears rather frizzy in the humid air.

  As Tyler reaches him they begin to walk toward the elevator. “So again,” Harris asks, “You want to tell me her name?”

  With a guilty look Tyler whispers, “I wish I could.”

  Harris admonishes him with a disapproving glare and a shake of his head. Having no defense Tyler just shrugs and Harris carries on, “What is it with you huh? When are you going to start taking your life seriously?”

  Swallowing culpably he replies less than convincingly, “I do.”

  “How many times have you been late to work this month?” The question is not answered before Harris plows ahead, “You’re out late every night, wake up every day with a different woman in your bed—if it is even your bed! It’s time to grow up Tyler.”

  “I know,” he says more to placate his mentor than because he actually means it.

  “Somehow I doubt that,” his words full of condemnation he adds, “When was the last time you even checked your mail huh? I saw it this morning and your inbox is overflowing. It’s well past time that you started putting more of an effort into this job.”

  “You’re right,” Tyler tries again, “I will.”

  “You just…you couldn’t have picked a worse day to show up late.”

  As they reach the elevator and Harris presses the button Tyler asks, “Why, what’s going on?”

  “You’ve been called up.” Harris explains, “Cruella is looking for you to discuss the potential of red tides off the coast of Hope.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s your area of interest right?”

  “Yeah but…why me?”

  Harris scowls at him. “I’ve asked that
question myself, several times this morning.”

  “No, I mean,” he grabs Harris by the wrist saying, “There are others here more experienced, more qualified.”

  “Apparently you were asked for specifically.”

  With a soft ping the elevator arrives and the doors slide open. Still unable to conceal his surprise Tyler boards the empty lift.

  “Meeting’s on the sixth floor,” Harris instructs as he holds the doors open with his hand, “Consider this opportunity knocking,” removing his hand he allows the doors to slowly shut, “I suggest you answer it.”

  Atlanta, Georgia

  “Mr. Latham,” the dour voice of his secretary intones over his intercom, “Roger Whittaker is here to see you.”

  An audible sigh parts his lips before he replies, “Give me two minutes and then send him in.”

  As one of the partners in the law firm of Latham & Murdock, Lionel Latham is one of Atlanta’s premier litigators. Just past the cardinal age of fifty, he shows no signs of slowing down even though the wear and tear of his experiences have begun to manifest in wrinkles on his otherwise austere face.

  He has a hawkish nose beneath ravenous brown eyes, whose glare has reduced many a witness to tears. A narrow mouth conceals both dental perfect teeth and vicious barbs that he tosses freely about the courtroom as a federal prosecutor.

  A fastidious man; the length of his silver and black hair is combed neatly to the top of his shoulders. Today he’s wearing a black dress shirt under a black silk vest and a black pinstriped suit jacket, a satin blue tie, matching black dress pants, and polished wingtip leather shoes.

  The dark shades contrasting nicely against his alabaster skin. Everything about his appearance portrays meticulousness and success.

  As the heavy oak door to his office swings open, he turns in his supple leather chair to face his client and old friend. “Roger,” he greets him with a subdued smile and firm handshake, “Please, sit down.”

  Sitting on the edge of a richly upholstered and ornately carved Biedermeier chair Roger foregoes any pleasantries and gets right down to business. “Have there been any new developments?”

  Hearing the nervousness in his inflection and recognizing the desperation on his face, Lionel proceeds with caution. “We need to talk Roger.”

  “What is it?” he asks with a mixture of dread and excitement.

  “I’m worried that you’re becoming too close to all of this.”

  Narrowing his eyes and gripping the armrests defensively Roger asks, “What do you mean?”

  Lionel can feel the tension emanating from the rigid posture of his friend and treads softly. “You’re here almost every day asking about the case against Tait. I understand your desire to stay informed but I’m concerned you’re letting yourself become consumed by it.”

  Silently grinding his back teeth Roger seethes, “You know what that monster did to my wife. Consumed or otherwise, I’m not letting go of this until he’s put away for what he’s done.”

  “See that’s the thing,” Lionel leans forward placing his elbows on his desk and entwining his fingers, “You need to start considering the possibility that he’s not going to go away for it.”

  “What?” Roger is flabbergasted as he repeats, “What? What are you talking about? He’s guilty!”

  “Roger,” he tries to calm him down, “Listen to me. Magnus Tait is one of the wealthiest men in the world. He has a team of highly paid attorney’s working round the clock to discredit the charges we’ve alleged. And right now all they are is allegations.”

  “He gave the order to mutilate her hand!” Roger shouts, “He’s responsible for her having…”

  “Listen to me Roger,” Lionel raps his left hand on the desk’s surface, “We have to prove it and we may not be able to do that.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about Lionel,” Roger shakes his head, “We have the taped confession. We have Randle testifying against him. We have Miriam’s own testimony. You tell me how we cannot have enough?”

  Leaning back Lionel ticks the points off on the tips of his manicured fingers. “It won’t take much for Tait’s defense to call the confession into question; all they have to do is claim it’s a forgery to raise a reasonable doubt in the jury’s mind.

  “Add to that the fact that it was recorded by a less than stellar witness. They’ll argue that the real guilty party here is Randle—a charge we can’t deny.

  “They’ll play off the jury’s sympathies by asserting that the only reason he’s accusing Tait is to deflect blame off of himself. And as for Miriam, she never actually saw Tait and it’ll take his defense all of thirty seconds to make that known.

  “Trust me Roger; our case isn’t as solid as you’d like it to be. You need to come off this and consider that it may not turn out the way we want it to.”

  Unwilling to relent Roger presses, “You told me before that it was a good thing that Randle turned on Tait—that we could use that. Now all of a sudden we can’t?”

  “It’s the nuances of trial law that you’re not getting here Roger,” he explains, “We can use Randle’s testimony but because he’s culpable in this we can’t build our case around him. We need more than just the word of a guilty man if we’re going to convince a jury to convict.”

  “Then we’ll get it,” Roger states matter-of-factly. “What about his daughter? Would her testimony help?”

  “It would,” Lionel reluctantly admits, “But she’s refusing to cooperate with us.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t understand; how can she do that?”

  “She’s claiming that she didn’t see anything and doesn’t know anything.”

  “Then why did she inject Miriam!?!”

  “Roger,” Lionel raises his palms to him saying, “I understand your frustration, I do. We’ve had Whitney talk to her several times but he’s been unable to convince her to help. We even offered her a deal on the assault charges she’s facing,” he shakes his head adding; “She won’t budge.”

  “What if I talked to her?”

  Lionel immediately dismisses the notion. “No Roger, that’s a bad idea.”

  “You said it yourself,” he argues, “We need more than Randle can give us to bring Tait down. Let me talk to her. She was innocent in the abduction—the jury will believe her. Let me convince her to help.”

  Lionel makes a show of contemplating the idea for a minute before asking, “You think you can sit across from the woman who intentionally gave Miriam a fatal disease and control your anger long enough to be of any real use?”

  “If it means bringing Tait down,” Roger leans forward, his face clouded by rage, “Then I can do it.”

  “I-I don’t know Roger, I—”

  “Please Lionel,” he begs, “For old time’s sake, for Miriam, let me do this.”

  Exhaling heavily, Lionel finally yields. “All right, I’ll set it up. But Roger,” he stares keenly at his old friend, “You’re only going to get one chance at this so you better make it count.”

  Chapter 5

  Caleb is in a foul mood.

  As if the row he had with Ling Tran this morning weren’t bad enough, now he’s been summoned to meet with the Deputy Director of the FBI—a man who is certainly no fan of his.

  He can already feel a headache forming behind his eyes as he enters the room. The space is decorated sparsely—worn carpeting, hard steel chairs, a battered table, and white walls whose only adornment is a tacky motivational poster—one step above an interrogation room.

  Seated behind the table he recognizes the lanky features of the Deputy Director, Jack Hofstra. A former competitive middleweight boxer, Jack bears the markings of the profession. He has a pug nose, sunken eyes, and a cauliflower right ear that stands out just beneath his receding hairline.

  Wearing the FBI standard issue blue suit and white shirt, he offers no hint of warmth for Caleb upon seeing him walk into the room. With his head down he absently scratches at his left forearm. Beneath
his shirt is scar tissue that extends from the wrist to his shoulder and is the result of third degree burns he sustained ten years ago. To this day when it gets hot out he starts to itch like crazy.

  Also in the room Caleb notices the short and plump shape of FBI psychiatrist Mary Ann Cornish standing behind and to the left of Hofstra.

  She has a round face that is friendly without being too personal, chubby cheeks, and full lips that are splashed a cherry red. Her black hair is braided and hangs between her shoulder blades, its sheen reflecting the overhead lighting.

  She’s wearing a checkered pantsuit that has to be two sizes too small. The cotton fabric is stretched so tight around her waist and across her chest that it seems to be only one deep breath away from bursting.

  For that, and other reasons, her presence here disturbs Caleb.

  “Have a seat Agent Fine,” Hofstra rumbles in his thick baritone. Warily Caleb sinks into the chair opposite him and waits for him to continue.

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  Caleb keeps his gaze steady as he shrugs nonchalantly prompting Hofstra to explain, “The inquest into what happened in Toronto is finished.” Showing him a folder he says, “I have their report right here.”

  If he was looking for a reaction Caleb provides him with none.

  Scratching at his arm Hofstra says, “As you can see I asked Dr. Cornish to join us here today. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Briefly glancing over at her Caleb returns his gaze to his boss saying, “Why would I mind?”

  “All right then,” placing the folder on the table he taps his fingers on it twice before stating, “Just for the record uh, why don’t you give me your account of what happened again before we get into this?”

  Nodding Caleb begins, “We found the victim, Miriam Whittaker, in the lobby of the convention centre. She was going into shock but I managed to ask her about her abductor, Whitney Randle’s whereabouts first. She mentioned the loading docks.”

  “But that’s not where Randle was found was it?”

  “No sir. Before she passed out she gave us a digital recording, made by Randle, of Magnus Tait confessing his involvement in the plot.”