In the Arms of the Enemy

by Carol Ericson

  Which happened several times a project.

  Nellie, the cockeyed tortie, ventured into her office and hopped onto the chair next to her desk. She let Charlie give her a couple of ear scratches before contorting into a knot to start cleaning herself.

  “Am I going crazy, Nellie?” Charlie asked.

  Nellie angled one green eye at her before returning to her wash.

  The problem was, Charlie didn’t have a sounding board. Her family was a disaster—her father had died in a mining accident nearly twenty years ago, and her mother had moved to Arkansas with her latest husband a couple of years back. Two brothers in jail, two up in South Dakota trying to take advantage of the shale oil boom while it lasted, and her only sister had moved to California, where she was dancing at a club in Encino while waiting for her big break.

  None of them were really bad people, not even the two in jail. But none of them understood Charlie and her dreams. Never had, never would.

  And they sure as hell wouldn’t understand why she had suddenly decided to dig up decade-old bones.

  And as for friends? Well, she’d turned self-imposed isolation into an art form.

  She attached the revised ordnance disposal protocols to an email and sent it off to her supervisor, then checked her email for any other assignments that might have come through while she was working on the changes. The inbox was empty of anything besides unsolicited advertisements. She dumped those messages into the trash folder.

  Then she opened her word processor program and took a deep breath.

  It was now or never. If she was going to give up on the quest, this was the time. Before she made another trip to Campbell Cove Security Services and spent another dime on listening to Mr. Big Buff Badass lecture her on the importance of looking both ways before she crossed the street.

  Pinching her lower lip between her teeth, she opened a new file, the cursor blinking on the blank page.

  Settling her trembling hands on the keyboard, she began to type.

  Two days before Christmas, nearly ten years ago, my friend Alice Bearden died. The police said it was an accident. Her parents believe the same. She had been drinking that night, cocktails aptly named Trouble Makers. Strawberries and cucumbers muddled and shaken with vodka, a French aperitif called Bonal, lime juice and simple syrup. I looked up the recipe on the internet later.

  I drank light beer. Just the one, as far as I remember. And that’s the problem. For a long time, those three sips of beer were all I remembered about the night Alice died.

  Then, a few weeks ago, the nightmares started.

  I tried to ignore them. I tried to tell myself that they were just symptoms of the stress I’ve been under working this new job.

  But that doesn’t explain some of the images I see in my head when I close my eyes to sleep. It doesn’t explain why I hear Alice whispering in my ear while the world is black around me.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie,” she whispers. “But I have to do the rest of this by myself.”

  What did she mean? What was she doing?

  It was supposed to be a girls’ night out, a chance to let down our hair before our last semester of high school sent us on a headlong hurdle toward college and responsibility. She was Ivy League bound. I’d earned a scholarship to James Mercer College, ten minutes from home.

  I guess, in a way, it was also supposed to be the beginning of our big goodbye. We swore we’d keep in touch. But we all know how best intentions go.

  I should have known Alice was up to something. She always was. She’d lived a charmed life—beautiful, sweet, the apple of her very wealthy daddy’s eye. She was heading for Harvard, had her life planned out. Harvard for undergrad, Yale Law, then an exciting career in the FBI.

  She wanted to be a detective. And for a golden girl like Alice Bearden, the local police force would never do.

  She had been full of anticipation that night. Almost jittery with it. We’d chosen a place where nobody knew who we were. We tried out the fake IDs Alice had procured from somewhere—“Don’t ask, Charlie,” she’d said with that infectious grin that could make me lose my head and follow her into all sorts of scrapes.

  For a brief, exciting moment, I felt as if my life was finally going to start.

  And then, nothing. No thoughts. Almost no memories. Just that whisper of Alice’s voice in my ear, and the haunting sensation that there was something I knew about that night that I just couldn’t remember.

  I tried to talk to Mr. Bearden a few days ago. I called his office, left my name, told him it was about Alice.

  He never called me back.

  But the very next day, I had a strong sensation of being watched.

  * * *

  MIKE WRAPPED UP his third training session of the day, this time an internal refresher course for new recruits to the agency, around five that afternoon. He headed for the showers, washed off the day’s sweat and changed into jeans and a long-sleeved polo. Civvies, he thought with a quirk of his lips that wasn’t quite a smile. Because the thought of being a civilian again wasn’t exactly a cause for rejoicing.

  He’d planned on a career in the Marine Corps. Put in thirty or forty years or more, climbing the ranks, then retire while he was still young enough to enjoy it.

  Things hadn’t gone the way he planned.

  There was a message light on his office phone. Maddox Heller’s deep drawl on his voice mail. “Stop by my office on your way out. I may have something for you.”

  He crossed the breezeway between the gym and the main office building, shivering as the frigid wind bit at every exposed inch of his skin. He’d experienced much colder temperatures, but there was something about the damp mountain air that chilled a man to the bone.

  Heller was on the phone when Mike stuck his head into the office. Heller waved him in, gesturing toward one of the two chairs that sat in front of his desk.

  Mike sat, enjoying the comforting warmth of the place. And not just the heat pouring through the vents. There was a personal warmth in the space, despite its masculine simplicity. A scattering of photos that took up most of the empty surfaces in the office, from Heller’s broad walnut desk to the low credenza against the wall. Family photos of Heller’s pretty wife, Iris, and his two ridiculously cute kids, Daisy and Jacob.

  Even leathernecks could be tamed, it seemed.

  Maddox hung up the phone and shot Mike a look of apology. “Sorry. Daisy won a spelling bee today and had to spell all the words for me.”

  Mike smiled. “How far the mighty warrior has fallen.”

  Heller just grinned as he picked up a folder lying in front of him. “One day it’ll be you, and then you’ll figure it out yourself.”

  “Figure out what?” he asked, taking the folder Heller handed him.

  “That family just makes you stronger.” Heller nodded at the folder. “Take a look at what our background check division came up with.”

  “That was quick.” Mike opened the folder. Staring up at him was an eight-by-ten glossy photo of a dark-haired young woman. Teenager, he amended after a closer look. Sophisticated looking, but definitely young. She didn’t look familiar. “This isn’t the woman from my class.”

  “I know. Her name was Alice Bearden.”

  Mike looked up sharply. “Was?”

  “She died about ten years ago. Two days before Christmas in a hit-and-run accident. The driver was never found.”

  Mike grimaced. So young. And so close to Christmas. “Bearden,” he said. “Any relation to that Bearden guy whose face is plastered on every other billboard from here to Paducah?”

  “Craig Bearden. Candidate for US Senate.” Heller nodded toward the folder in Mike’s lap. “Keep reading.”

  Mike flipped through the rest of the documents in the file. They were mostly printouts of online newspaper
articles about the accident and a few stories about Craig Bearden’s run for the Senate. “Bearden turned his daughter’s death into a political platform. Charming.”

  “His eighteen-year-old daughter obtained a fake ID so she could purchase alcohol in a bar. The bartender may have been fooled by the fake ID, but that doesn’t excuse him from serving so much alcohol she was apparently too drunk to walk straight. And maybe her inebriation was what led her to wander into the street in front of a moving vehicle, but whoever hit her didn’t stop to call for help.”

  “And he’s now crusading against what exactly?”

  “All of the above? The bartender was never charged, and the bar apparently still exists today, so I guess if he sued, he lost. Maybe this is his way of feeling he got some sort of justice for his daughter.”

  Mike looked at the photo of Alice Bearden again. A tragedy that her life was snuffed out, certainly. But he hadn’t asked Heller to look into Alice Bearden’s background.

  “What does this have to do with Charlie Winters?” he asked.

  “Read the final page.”

  Mike scanned the last page. It was earliest of the articles on the accident, he realized. The dateline was December 26, three days after the accident. He scanned the article, stopping short at the fourth paragraph.

  Miss Bearden was last seen at the Headhunter Bar on Middleburg Road close to midnight,

  accompanied by another teenager, Charlotte Winters of Bagwell.

  “Charlie Winters was with Alice when she died?”

  “That seems to be the big question,” Heller answered. “Nobody seems to know what happened between the time they left the bar and when Alice’s body was found in the middle of the road a couple of hours later.”

  Mike’s gaze narrowed. “Charlie refused to talk?”

  “Worse,” Heller answered. “I talked to the lead investigator interviewed in the article. He’s still with the county sheriff’s department and remembers the case well. According to him, Charlotte Winters claims to have no memory of leaving the bar at all. As far as she’s concerned, almost the whole night is one big blank.”

  “And what does he think?”

  “He thinks Charlie Winters might have gotten away with murder.”

  Copyright © 2016 by Paula Graves

  ISBN-13: 9781488005916

  In the Arms of the Enemy

  Copyright © 2016 by Carol Ericson

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