Realm of Shadows

by Eldon Farrell

  As she swivels on her stool to face him again her knee brushes against his thigh. “You’re sure of that are you?”

  “Of course,” he answers while swiping the froth from his lip, “I trained her didn’t I?”

  She stares at him curiously for a long moment prompting him to look away and ask, “What?”

  With a wan grin she asks, “I’ve just always wondered…the Warden…do you delight in that nickname?”

  With a nod he replies, “Well it does sort of suit me.”

  “It doesn’t have to Larry.” He looks back at her and she says, “There’s nothing saying that you have to be such a hard ass all the time.”

  He returns her smile with a knowing one of his own. “Let me tell you something. You know why I’m so hard on my students? Because I need to be—they need someone who’s not gonna coddle them. If I go easy on them here and they go out there unprepared and make a mistake…well then someone’s gonna die and they’ll have to live with the guilt. And that’ll be a lot harder on them than anything I could do to them.

  “That’s assuming of course that they’re not the one who dies. This is a tough calling and if you’re gonna make it—you know—you gotta get used to being wrong and you gotta get tough.”

  “And you gotta get used to dealing with hard asses,” she interjects.

  “Damn straight,” he raises his glass and smiles even wider, “And it’s because of that type of training that I know Lynne is OK. Where ever she is, where ever he has her, I know she’s holding up.”

  “Thanks Larry,” she says raising her own glass surprised that she actually means it.

  Clinking his glass against hers he says, “Don’t mention it. And I really mean that. I don’t need anyone thinking the old Warden actually has a heart.”

  Walking away he hollers back over his shoulder, “And Wendy; be sure to tell those bureaucrats up north just what I think of their whole operation.”

  With his middle finger out he thrusts his hand up in the air eliciting a laugh and a shake of her head before he’s gone.

  Chapter 20

  August 15

  “Could I have everyone’s attention here?”

  Standing in the briefing room on the third floor of the FBI building, Deputy Director Jack Hofstra patiently waits for the members of the Toymaker Task Force to settle down.

  It’s been a tense twenty-four hours for them and everyone at the bureau. He knows the rumors about what happened at the Heath house must be running wild by now and he’s here to set the record straight.

  Absently scratching at his left forearm, he levels his sunken eyes on the men and women before him as they find seats and wait for him to relay what he knows about the situation.

  As the room calms and all eyes rest upon him he notices the spent look in Li Ling Tran’s dark eyes. She looked tired when he saw her last night at the hospital but if it’s possible now she looks even worse.

  She’s running on nothing but resolve. It’s like the explosion hollowed her out as well.

  Looking away from her, Hofstra makes a mental note to keep close tabs on her; for her own safety.

  After fidgeting with the lapels on his navy blue suit for a moment he clears his throat and begins. “I’m sure you’ve all heard by now that yesterday morning the suspect house on Johnson Road was destroyed in a fiery explosion while Special Agents Hal Jerome and Caleb Fine were inside.

  “To update you all on their conditions as of this time, they are both in the ICU at Grady in critical condition. Neither one has regained consciousness since the blast but I’m told that doctors are cautiously optimistic.”

  “How bad is it?”

  Nodding at the question from Jim Cavillo, Hofstra takes a moment before answering, “It’s bad. From what we’ve been able to uncover at this point it appears that they were both in close proximity to the blast when it went off.

  “Judging by where they were found in the house it looks as if Caleb was blown back and then fell to the side where he was at least partially protected by the wall in the hallway.

  “Hal was not so lucky. He took the full brunt of the explosion and was knocked into the wall directly behind him. This accounts for his more extensive burns but both of them have intracranial pressure from impact injuries and while the doc’s are hopeful, they’re making no promises.

  “This list is by no means exhaustive, but I’ve been informed that Hal has a likely TM rupture, a perforated globe on his left eye, several broken ribs, a pulmonary contusion, third degree burns on his arms, hands, and chest, and a concussion all in addition to the intracranial pressure previously mentioned as well as numerous cuts and scrapes.

  “Caleb, on the other hand, was burned far less severely, but still has a perforated bowel, and is suffering from hemothorax which I’m told could lead to a collapsed lung. He also has broken ribs, a fractured cheekbone, and a concussion.

  “The full extent of the CNS injuries to both of them will simply not be known until they regain consciousness. So all in all, it’s bad.”

  “How could this have happened?” Brett Flannigan questions in his somber tone. “CSI swept that place top to bottom. How could a bomb be missed?”

  Nods of agreement ring the room and echo his sentiment.

  “We’re working on that,” Hofstra replies, “It’s one of many questions at the moment that need to be answered. Right now we have no idea why they were even in the house. Or more specifically, what they were looking for.”

  “Do we know anything about the bomb?” Jim asks.

  “The tech guys are combing through the wreckage as we speak and we’ll hopefully have some answers by the end of the day.”

  Stepping away from the lectern he begins to pace the front of the room saying, “Listen, I know that we’re all concerned about Caleb and Hal, but the best we can do for them is to catch the bastard who did this. I need everyone on this task force at their best now.

  “The Toymaker has never used explosives until now and that makes it even more pressing that we find him and bring him in before he decides to blow up something else.”

  “Are we sure this is his work?”

  Ling Tran’s question draws Hofstra’s attention along with the rest of the room’s.

  “What are you joking?” Jim carps.

  With empty eyes staring straight ahead, she answers in a deadened voice, “No. It would go to explain how we missed a bomb in the house. Maybe it wasn’t there when we checked it and was only added after.”

  “We’ve had the house under surveillance since we zeroed in on Heath though,” Tommy Drayton points out.

  “The surveillance detail was lifted two nights ago,” Brett interjects, “After forensics finished sweeping the place. There could’ve been a window of opportunity.”

  “Maybe,” Jim concedes, “But there’s nothing to suggest the Toymaker didn’t plant the bomb.”

  “Except his profile,” Ling Tran states, “Going from that we have nothing to suggest he would plant the bomb.”

  “All right,” Hofstra interrupts, “This is good. I’m going to be stepping in to head this task force for the time being until a replacement for Hal can be appointed.

  “Jim, I want you and Brett to investigate that window of opportunity and find out if it was the Toymaker who slipped in to plant the bomb. If you’re right and it was, then at least we’ll know that he’s still in the area and we might be able to track him down.

  “Ling, I want you to pursue the angle that it might’ve been someone else who planted the bomb. Take Tommy with you. Everyone else, I need you back on the phones and in the files tracking down leads.”

  Hardening the edge in his voice Hofstra rumbles, “This son of a bitch wants to come after us; wants to hurt our own—fine with me. I want his ass brought in yesterday. Make it happen.”

  As the meeting breaks up Hofstra reaches out to tap Ling Tran on the shoulder. “Hang back a minute will you?”

  After the others have cleared the room, he tak
es a seat next to her asking, “How are you holding up?”

  With a vacant, distant look she replies, “I’m OK.”

  “Supposing I believed that,” Hofstra says, “I need to know if you’re up to continuing working. It’s all right if you’re not.”

  “I’ll be OK sir.”

  After studying her for a moment he nods and asks, “I need to ask you a few questions; you up to that?”

  She nods and he continues, “Were you involved in Hal’s decision to bring Caleb back as a consultant?”

  “I wasn’t,” she replies with a shake of her head.

  “When did you become aware of it?”

  “Two days ago; I saw him at Benjamin Franklin Academy.”

  “I have to say I’m a little surprised you didn’t inform me of this,” Hofstra explains, “You didn’t hesitate to share your concerns with me about his mental state when I asked. That was instrumental in my decision to suspend him.

  “And yet when you became aware that they had circumvented that order, you didn’t come to me. Why?”

  “Hal told me that he was going to inform you of his decision. I thought it best if I stayed out of it. My relationship with Caleb was already strained and I…”

  Recognizing guilt as it spreads across her face, Hofstra decides to let it go for now and move on. As he scratches at his forearm he asks, “Do you know why they went to the suspect house?”

  After another drawn out moment she shakes her head, “I don’t.”

  “So you don’t know what they were looking for?” he confirms.

  “I could only guess.”

  “All right then,” he prods, “Guess.”

  Running her fingers through her hair she says, “We found a riddle at the Academy—”

  “What kind of riddle?”

  “It was written by Tolkien,” she explains, “It referred to an egg. We didn’t know its relevance so maybe they went back to the house looking for more clues.”

  “Maybe,” he ponders over the thought for a few minutes before standing up saying, “All right, you’ve got work to do and I don’t want to keep you from it any longer.”

  “Sir,” she looks up at him and he again recognizes the burden of guilt in her as she starts, “What if they—”

  “They’re going to be fine,” he says cutting her off.

  “But what if they’re not? What if I could’ve kept them out of that house by telling you that…?”

  “What happened is not your fault Ling. And they will be fine.” Patting her on the shoulder he says, “You want to do something for them, you find me the Toymaker. You find the son of a bitch and end this madness.”

  Hope, North Carolina

  Plop.

  Plop.

  From far away the sound of water slowly dripping brings him back to consciousness.

  Plop.

  “Ungh,” he groans as he opens his eyes to the darkness. Everywhere is pitch black; a claustrophobic curtain draped over his eyes.

  Lifting his head up slightly causes an explosion of light behind his pupils as excruciating pain stabs thousands of tiny needles into the soft tissues of his brain, carrying him back to the empty darkness he rose from.

  Plop.

  Plop.

  Plop.

  “Ungh,” his eyes snap open again without any knowledge of how long he’s been out. He is still beset by an encroaching gloom that conceals his surroundings from him.

  Raising his hand in front of his face he cannot make it out but can hear a rattle and feel a tugging on his skin. With his other hand, he runs his fingers over a plastic tube snaking out of his vein.

  “Wha…?” he mumbles before a wave of vertigo overcomes him. Feeling his gorge rise he rolls to one side and vomits—bile and acid burning the inside of his dry mouth.

  “Oh God,” he cries weakly once the contents of his stomach have left him completely. Turning his attention back to the tube he begins struggling to remove it.

  “You don’t want to do that.”

  The voice startles him; if a corpse could speak he swears it would have that voice.

  He fights to remain perfectly still but his nerves won’t allow it and he shakes like a leaf in the wind. He can’t see anyone or anything around him and yet now he knows that he’s not alone.

  “Who…who are you?” he stammers, “Why…why can’t I s-see?”

  Silence.

  Plop.

  The drop echoes in his ears along with the tortured rhythm of his own breathing.

  “Wh-where are you?”

  “What’s your name?” the disembodied voice asks from somewhere in the ether.

  “Talbot,” he answers, “N-nick Talbot. Wh-wh-what’s yours?”

  After a moment the reply comes, “Lynne Bosworth.”

  “Why can’t I see?”

  “You can,” her voice intones, “But not in the dark. We have no light here to focus.”

  “Then,” he stutters, “Then how c-can you see me?”

  “How long have you been here?” she asks ignoring his question.

  Feeling like a vice is slowly squeezing his head he lets out an anguished moan. After a moment he admits, “I-I don’t know. Where is here?”

  The silence stretches out like an infinite road between them; its miles seeming never to be crossed until she whispers, “Hell.”

  The ethereal nature of her voice wrapping itself around that one word causes him to shudder in fear that it just may be true. After taking a moment to gain some composure he asks, “What’s happening to me? What am I hooked up to?”

  Silence.

  “P-please answer.”

  “Morphine,” she finally states, “Be glad you have it.”

  Plop.

  Not water, he realizes, an IV drip.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  He strains to recover his last memory from the morphine induced haze. “I-I snuck onto Hope. I…there was running…I had…something…”

  His voice trails off as the memory slips through his fingers. Before it does though, for an instant he recalls the figure on the cliffs.

  “There was a man…a shadow…following me.”

  “You took a solid blow to the head.”

  “Yes,” he exclaims as the memory of another shadow rises to him. “How did you know that?”

  Again, silence is the only reply.

  “Why do I know your name?” he asks.

  “I told you it.”

  “No,” he shakes his head slightly setting off another light show behind his eyes. As the constricting pain subsides he says, “I-I’ve heard it somewhere before.”

  “AAAAAAHHHHH!!”

  The horrendous scream drops them both into a choked silence. As it echoes around them he finds the courage to whisper, “Wh-what was that?”

  “Trust me,” her deadened voice says from what must be very close by, “You don’t want to know.”

  Chapter 21

  Atlanta, Georgia

  She knows she shouldn’t be here. She knows she should be at work. She knows that it doesn’t change the situation or help in any way by her being here. And yet even knowing all of this, Ling Tran is still standing outside the closed doors of the ICU staring blankly at their frosted glass panes.

  She’s here because Caleb is her partner. She’s here because he is the godfather to her daughter. She’s here because they’re friends and no matter how much they fight or disagree, she will always care for him.

  Her silent reverie is momentarily disturbed by the overhead speaker crackling to life paging a doctor to the OR. Scuffing her heel on the linoleum floor of the hallway she begins pacing a small circuit back and forth in front of the locked ICU door.

  She is fighting against a rising tide of emotion and is losing the battle.

  Placing her finger to her lips she starts to nervously chew her fingernail. It’s something she used to do in moments of high stress, years ago now, back before she ever joined the academy. She hasn’t done it in
years.

  After everything she’s been through, all the cases she’s cleared with the Bureau, her wedding day, the birth of Tai-an, none of it caused her to lose control like this.

  But being here now, knowing that Caleb is on the other side of that door fighting for his life and that there’s nothing she can do to help him; she cannot overcome that fear. It is too great.

  And worse still is the lingering suspicion tickling her thoughts—that he is here because she failed to prevent it. If she had gone to Hofstra instead of listening to Hal then maybe neither one of them would’ve been in that house yesterday morning.

  Then maybe neither one of them would be fighting for their lives.

  With a tiny whoosh of air the locked doors swing open and a young looking doctor steps out into the hallway. He has ruffled brown hair, intelligent and compassionate blue eyes behind tiny glass circles set in frames that remind her of Harry Potter, and a serious expression set on his face that belies his true age.

  She freezes in mid-stride and waits for him to look her way.

  As he does he hands a metal clipboard to a passing nurse entering the ICU, and extends a hand to her in greeting. “I’m Dr. Adam Levi; are you the FBI agent I was told wanted to see me?”

  She confirms with a wordless nod before finding the strength to speak. “Li Ling Tran. Are they,” she pauses as a lump catches in her throat, “Are they any better?”

  He examines her for what seems like to her to be a very long time. In his boyish looks she recognizes the indecision he’s wrestling with—how much does he want to tell her about their condition? How much is he allowed to say?

  “Caleb is my partner,” she says trying to ease his decision, “He’s also my daughter’s godfather. He’s family. Please doctor.”

  With a slight nod he decides to share what he knows. “They are both still in critical condition.”

  “Can I see him?”

  He shakes his head, “I’m sorry, right now only immediate family members are allowed in and then only for a few minutes at a time. Our most pressing concerns for him right now are his perforated bowel, hemothorax, and the indications of renal injury.”