The Trigger

by L. J. Sellers

  Inside the office, he pulled off his sunglasses, not wanting to appear cliché. The clerk, an older man with smooth skin and dark eyes, looked up from his little reading device. “Welcome. How can I help you?”

  “I’m Agent McCullen with the FBI. I need to know about the rental car that was left at the Four Corners Motel a couple of weeks ago.”

  “That was a weird one.”

  “Can I see the file for the vehicle?”

  “I’ll print it for you. We scan all our signed documents, then shred the paper at the end of the month. The owner hates clutter.”

  So much for finding her fingerprints on the paperwork. “What’s your name?”

  “Walter Wolf.”

  Native American. “Were you working when the woman, Charlotte Archer, rented the car?”

  “Yep. The owner’s son is here on weekends, but otherwise it’s just me behind the counter.” He clicked his keyboard, and a printer hummed in response.

  “Describe her, please.”

  “She had hair that came to her shoulders, dyed blonde with dark roots starting to show. Probably thirty-five or so.” The clerk paused. “If she had smiled she would have been pretty, but I remember thinking she seemed uptight.”

  Had Charlotte known she was in trouble? McCullen made a note. “Do you remember her height or weight?”

  “She seemed average. I don’t know, maybe five-five.” He chuckled. “I have no idea what she weighed, but her bra size was a 34-D.”

  Not helpful. McCullen gave him a tight smile. “Had you ever seen her before?”

  “She seemed vaguely familiar, but I didn’t recognize her name.”

  “Any chance there’s a picture of her driver’s license in the file? Or an image of her on a security camera?”

  “We scanned the license but there’s no video in here.” He chuckled again. “It would be boring, except when I do pushup breaks.”

  McCullen reached for the printed stack of papers. The license scan was on top, but the blurry one-inch photo wasn’t much help. Still, tension melted from his shoulders. It was definitely not Emma. He would have to enlarge the image back at the office, but for the moment he stared. The woman was kind of pretty in a pixie-faced way, but her mouth seemed bitter. Charlotte Archer, born July 7, 1979, address: 3250 Linwood Street, Sacramento, California. A mid-quality fake. He could tell by the ink color.

  “It’s a forgery.” He kept the disappointment out of his voice.

  “Sorry.” The clerk shrugged. “I don’t know how to spot them.”

  McCullen guessed the man had been too busy looking at her 34-Ds. He knew the answer but he had to ask, “How did she pay?”

  “With cash. Sorry.”

  “Did she say anything about why she was here? Or where she was going?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What about the rental she drove? What was it?”

  “A Dodge Avenger.”

  “Did she leave anything in it?”

  “Just a little trash, like everyone does.”

  “What exactly did she leave?” McCullen leaned in. “This is important. I need to know where she ate or what she bought.”

  Wolf looked amused. “What did she do? Kill someone?”

  Close. “She’d dead. And I need to figure out who murdered her. But first, I need to know who Charlotte Archer really is.”

  “Sorry I can’t be more help.”

  “Is the car here? I’d like to see it.”

  “Sure, but it seems like a waste of time.” Wolfe pulled keys from a drawer. “We wipe down the vehicles after each customer, and this one has been rented a few times since.”

  “Who cleans the cars?”

  “Jimmy Pearson. He’s a high school kid who comes in at one-thirty.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  McCullen sat in his sedan and glanced through Charlotte’s rental contract. It told him nothing, so he studied the tiny driver’s license photo. Why did she seem familiar? Was she a local? And why had she used a fake ID and cash? Clearly, she had something to hide. He would get her picture into the local paper as well as the Sacramento Bee to see if anyone recognized her.

  The detailer showed up forty minutes later. McCullen recognized him by the blue jumpsuit he pulled on when he climbed out of his beat-up car. McCullen approached him before he reached the building. “Jimmy Pearson?”

  The kid spun around, a worried look on his face.

  McCullen introduced himself, and the young man’s mouth tightened.

  “I just want to ask about a rental a few weeks ago.” They stood in front of the entrance, and he held out Archer’s little photo. “A Dodge Avenger, driven by this woman. Do you remember her or the car?”

  “Yeah, the banana lady.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She left two banana peels in the car.”

  “Anything else?”

  Jimmy made his face look impassive. “Some gum wrappers. Stuff like that.”

  He was hiding something. McCullen could tell by the wary look in his eyes. “What did you find? I need to know. This woman was murdered.”

  “Nothing.” The kid squeezed his hands into fists, then released them.

  McCullen lost his patience. “Let’s go into the bureau and talk there.”

  “I can’t, I’m working.” Jimmy started to turn away.

  McCullen grabbed his arm. “Just tell me what you found. You won’t be in trouble.”

  “Nothing!” The high schooler looked scared.

  What was he hiding? McCullen knew he had to take him in. “Don’t make me cuff you. It’ll look bad to your boss.” He steered the young man toward his sedan, opened the passenger door, and urged him inside.

  McCullen climbed in and locked the doors. Jimmy’s shoulders hunched forward, and he mumbled something.

  “What was that?”

  “I’m just praying.”

  “You should talk to me instead.” He pulled out of the lot.

  Jimmy rocked back and forth, straining against the seat belt. “Did you mean it about not getting into trouble?”

  “Unless you killed her.” A little pressure to nudge him over.

  “No. I just found some things under the seat and kept them.” His young voice squeaked in panic. “But you can’t tell my boss. I can’t afford to lose this job.”

  “What did you find?”

  “A set of lock-picks, a sledge hammer, and a center-hole punch.”

  Burglary tools. “Do you still have them?”

  “Not the sledge hammer.”

  “Why did you take the lock-picks? Are you planning a break-in?”

  “No! I just thought they were cool. I’m sorry. I know it was stupid.”

  McCullen turned on Churn Creek, then pulled into a parking lot. He didn’t want to put this kid in the interrogation room if he didn’t have to. “I need the tools. I might be able to pull a fingerprint.”

  “My mother can’t know, and she’s probably home.”

  “That’s your problem.” The kid could probably come up with some plausible lie to cover his tracks. McCullen had pulled his share of stupid stunts at the age of sixteen and had nearly gone to jail. A few months later, one of his classmates had shot up the school and killed four people, including his best friend. That horrible day had changed everything—and most likely led to his current career. “Where do you live?”

  “Saginaw Street. Near the highway.”

  A low-rent neighborhood. But at least Jimmy had a job and he was still in school, so the kid might turn out all right. McCullen stared hard. “What else did you find in the car?” No harm in asking.

  The young detailer licked his upper lip. “There was a gun under the seat too. I know I should have turned it in to the cops, but my mother needed the money, so I sold it.”

  McCullen wanted to curse. “That was such a bad idea. You’re making my job impossible.”

  “My mother needed a prescription.” Jimmy sounded defensive. “I didn’t know the lad
y was dead. I just assumed she was long gone and not coming back for her stuff.”

  “What kind of gun? And who did you sell it to?”

  “A small black handgun. And I don’t know the name of the guy who bought it. But if you have two hundred dollars, I can probably buy it back.”

  A shakedown. This just got better and better. As evidence, the gun was practically worthless. Hearsay testimony at best. But if he could retrieve the weapon and track the owner through the serial number, it might help him ID the victim or the killer. “Let’s go get it.”

  They wasted two hours looking for “the dude” Jimmy had sold the gun to and didn’t find him. McCullen drove Jimmy home and let him go in by himself. The young man came out with a black leather zipped pouch and handed it to him through the window.

  “This isn’t over,” McCullen warned. He handed Jimmy a business card. “Find that gun and call me or I’ll press charges for selling a weapon without a permit.”

  McCullen wasn’t optimistic he would ever see the gun, and he wasn’t likely to press charges either. The kid was a minor. Why ruin his life? If his own mother had needed money for medical help, he would have done the same thing. She’d died the year before of heart failure after a lifetime of diabetes. Her medical bills had kept them from having the money for high school sports. McCullen had resented not getting to play football—until the school shooting—but he’d loved his mother too much to be bitter about it.

  He drove back to the bureau, enlarged and scanned the license photo, then sent the file to a reporter he’d dated at the Searchlight newspaper. Kaitlin had been a rebound girlfriend after Emma and it hadn’t lasted long, but they’d remained friendly. He also called the Sacramento Bee and asked a managing editor to run the picture as soon as they could.

  With any luck, someone would come forward. Even if they didn’t recognize Charlotte, they might have spotted her and be able to shed light on her presence in Redding. The victim had come here with burglary tools and a weapon, under a false identity, then had been murdered.

  What the hell had Charlotte been involved in?

  Chapter 13

  Thursday, May 9, 2:05 p.m.

  Randall examined the dynamite-based explosives in storage and decided they were no longer adequate. Too crude, not powerful enough, and too limited by their fuses. When they’d made them, the meltdown—and the need to protect Destiny—had seemed surreal and faraway. But now it was happening, and it was time to get serious. His followers had crafted IEDs with compact materials and sophisticated timers to use on the communication centers. He needed to do more research and step up his game.

  He left the storage locker, thinking he would go home, then changed his mind and headed for the generator. He wanted to check on Grace’s progress. Producing electricity was critical if Destiny was going to do more than just survive in the new world. He’d also ask Grace a few questions about building a timer. He braced himself for the interaction. She’d been tense with him lately, but she was the only one in the community with that kind of knowledge and he was too paranoid to search online or discuss bomb-making details in digital conversations.

  As he jogged down the path to the creek, the sun was hot on his back and a deep weariness made his legs feel heavy. He hadn’t slept well in days, and tension had built up in his neck, giving him a constant mild headache. He would be glad when this was over.

  He spotted Grace, in her usual camo pants, climbing up from the creek bed. Her shirt and hair dripped with water, as if she’d dunked her head in the creek, but even with a wet T-shirt, she didn’t look feminine. “Hey, Grace. Cooling off?”

  “Uh huh. What can I do for you?” Her tone was terse.

  Boy, was he tired of her attitude. “I’m just checking on the generator. We need it functioning soon.”

  “I know! And I’m doing my best.” She practically shouted, before turning toward the generator. The side panel was open where she’d been making adjustments.

  What the hell was her problem? He strode toward her. “I’d like specifics. And I wanted to ask you about making a timer for the explosives.”

  She drew in a long breath but didn’t look at him. “I’m busy right now, and I’ll report my progress to Spencer, as I always have.”

  Arrogant! “Would you show a little more respect? Don’t forget I pay your salary.”

  Slowly, she pivoted and met his eyes. Grace stood shoulder to shoulder with him, and her muscles flexed under the wet shirt. “Don’t forget I can walk away from this community at any time. And if respecting you is a job requirement, then I just might.”

  Her threat gave him pause. Spencer would be outraged if Grace left. And they needed her more than ever. But still, she infuriated him with her aloofness and her physical superiority. In the last week, she’d been worse than ever, showing outright contempt.

  “What’s going on with you? First you tell the FBI that Emma and I were fighting. Now you’re threatening to quit and leave?”

  Grace shook her head, jaw twitching. “No, you tell me. What’s going on here? First Emma and Tate disappear, then Spencer’s suddenly in an all-fire hurry to have the generator ready, and now you’re asking about detonators. What the fuck are you up to?”

  He should have known better. Grace was too smart for her own good sometimes. He started to offer an explanation but she cut him off.

  “I know we’re all supposed to pretend that everything is fine, but I think you know what happened to Emma.”

  She suspected him. The accusation hit him like a blow to the chest. “What are you implying?”

  Grace stepped toward him, unblinking. “I’m not implying, I’m saying. I think you killed Emma because she wanted to leave you, and you couldn’t stand the idea. Under all that futuristic ideology, you’re weak and insecure and controlling.”

  How dare she! Rage pulsed in his temples and he fought for control. “You’re fired. Pack your stuff and get off my property. I won’t let you destroy this community with your hatred and lies.”

  “You can’t fire me! Spencer won’t let you. Now leave me the hell alone or I’ll tell Agent McCullen what I know about you and Emma.”

  What did she know? His heart thundered with fear and loathing. “There’s nothing to tell!”

  “I heard the fight. I saw you leave your house after dark. I saw—”

  Randall couldn’t take anymore. Blisters of heat exploded in his brain and he lashed out with both hands.

  Chapter 14

  Thursday, May 9, 1:05 p.m.

  Still feeling upbeat after his run with Sonja, Spencer showered and checked on Lisa. Marissa was putting ointment on his wife’s bedsores, but she looked up. “Lisa’s restless this morning, but not in pain.” The nurse rolled his wife onto her back, kissed her forehead, and left.

  Lisa gave him a weak smile. “Spencer.”

  “Hi, sweetheart. Can I get you anything?” He’d quit asking how she felt long ago.

  “Maybe some juice.”

  Her voice was clear and strong, another surprise. He hurried to the kitchen, poured a small glass of orange juice, and brought it back. He started to transfer it into a cup with a lid and straw, but his wife’s cool fingers touched his arm.

  “I’d like to sit up more and drink it from the glass. I’m thirsty.”

  He raised the head of her bed and handed her the juice. “You look pretty in that blue gown.” He had bathed and changed her that morning, and she’d barely noticed. He remembered reading that sometimes terminal patients rallied right before they passed on. Would this be their last conversation? Heaviness filled his heart.

  “Thanks, honey.” She took a long drink. “I know we’ve talked about this, but I don’t want you to grieve for me anymore. Find a new wife while you can.” Lisa was even more worried about a social collapse than he was.

  “I’ll be fine. We have some new young people here, and I think the wait is almost over.”

  “I know about Sonja.” Lisa’s voice was quiet. “Tina visited m
e this morning, and she’s such a gossip.”

  A sharp stab of guilt. “Sonja is just a new member. My heart still belongs to you.”

  “I know.” The loose skin on her forehead wrinkled into a frown. “What did you mean by the wait is almost over?”

  Spencer wanted to tell her. He and Lisa had never kept anything from each other. But since the day he and Randall had started talking about the trigger, he’d known he couldn’t share his plans with his wife. She would worry too much about the potential suffering of others. “I just meant that your pain, and our time together, is near the end.”

  “Sing to me. I love your voice.”

  He’d never understood why, but it didn’t matter. He sang “Forever and Ever,” a Randy Travis song that always made Lisa misty-eyed. She drifted off before he finished.

  Feeling melancholy, Spencer headed for the data center. He’d heard Raff come in earlier and was relieved to find him still there. They’d been up past midnight again, working to set up new proxy computers in Puerto Rico, using remote desktop protocols and 3389 ports. He sat down at a monitor and asked, “How’s it going?”

  “I found an employee at Bentley & Eastman who telecommutes two days a week and accesses files through a remote portal.” Raff glanced up from the monitor. “I posed as a customer and sent him an email embedded with a surprise. As soon as he opens it, I’ll have access to his files and can upgrade his security status.”

  Spencer felt impatient. “Then what?”

  “Once the employee, David, has the upgraded security clearance, we can move money around—or make it disappear. I’ll start with Standford Oil. Without cash, the company will be paralyzed and will have to shut down refineries. A massive gas shortage will follow.”

  “How long will all that take?”

  “I don’t know.” Raff shrugged. “Maybe a couple of weeks. Predicting the outcome is not my area of expertise.”

  Spencer felt a new charge of optimism. There was a Standford refinery near Houston, one of the cities where he planned to shut down the electricity, so the effect could be immediate. Their potential started to seem unlimited. “It’s not enough. We need to target several companies at once.”