Let Me Go

by Chelsea Cain

  “I can call a cab,” Susan said, twisting her legs around in an effort to get comfortable.

  “Sanchez will be here in a few minutes,” Bear said.

  She’d been waiting for Sanchez for an hour now. Richard and Bear couldn’t leave their post, apparently. But they also wouldn’t let her leave until she was debriefed. She wondered if getting debriefed by the FBI involved waterboarding. She hoped it involved a bubble bath and an expensive hotel suite.

  “Someone’s on the move,” Richard said, his narrow eyes on one of the monitors.

  Susan scooted forward on her knees and peered at the image on the monitor. A man was walking over the bridge, approaching the gate.

  “Is that Jack?” Bear asked Richard.

  “Can’t tell yet,” Richard answered.

  “It’s Archie,” Susan said.

  He was wearing different clothes, but it was Archie—she was positive. She knew his hunched shoulders and the way he kept his elbows bent, hands in his pockets, when he walked. He stopped at the gate and waited as it swung open. Then he stepped through it and got something out of his pocket and held it up.

  “What’s he doing?” Richard asked.

  “Looking for a signal,” Bear said.

  He seemed to find one, because he bent his head over his phone for a minute.

  “He’s sending a text,” Bear said.

  “Should we pick him up?” Richard asked.

  “Give him a minute,” Bear said. “See what he does.”

  Archie got his car keys out of his pocket and held them loosely in his hand.

  “He’s walking to his car,” Richard said. “The valets parked along the road last night.”

  “It’s the Taurus,” Bear said. “It’s a quarter mile back.”

  Susan heard the sound of tires on gravel. Someone had just pulled up behind the van. Sanchez, probably. It was about time.

  Susan’s phone buzzed. Her bag was behind her so she was the only one who heard it.

  She reached around and pulled her phone out and looked at it.

  One new text from Archie Sheridan.

  She opened it.

  It read, Don’t talk to Sanchez.

  Susan’s mouth felt dry.

  There was a knock on the back of the van.

  Bear reached back to unlock the door. “There’s your ride,” he said to Susan as he threw the door open.

  Susan blinked into the sudden brightness. A short Latino man stared back at her. He had rough-hewn skin and thick dark hair, and features that looked like they’d been whittled by someone who didn’t really know how to whittle but had decided to take a stab at it anyway. He smiled at her and lifted his eyebrows. “Susan,” he said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Um, hi?” she said.

  Sanchez held out a hand. “Let’s go,” he said. “We can talk in the car.”

  How was she supposed to get out of this one? Susan glanced down at her phone and, in one quick motion, deleted the text.

  Then she took Sanchez’s hand and stepped out of the van.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Sanchez had taken Susan to the FBI’s Portland Field Office. Archie had arranged to meet them there. In the meantime, he could only hope that Susan had gotten his text.

  The FBI’s Portland office was in the Crown Plaza building downtown, within walking distance of the Willamette. It wasn’t a pretty building, or really notable in any way. Just a concrete gray box filled mostly with law offices, except for the fourth floor, which housed the FBI.

  Since it was Sunday, most of the building’s other tenants were closed, and the place was empty except for a uniformed security guard whom Archie had passed smoking outside in front of the massive revolving doors of the main entrance, and who had waved Archie by with barely a glance.

  Archie walked through the lobby, past the shuttered café, to one of the banks of elevators, and then punched a security code into the elevator keypad. When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, Sanchez was waiting for him. Compared to most government facilities, the Portland FBI offices were rather stately. There were marble floors, orange and gold hall carpet runners, and glossy maple doors. But scratch the surface and it was just like any other office: steel drinking fountains in the hallway, emergency floodlights mounted on the walls, a paneled drop ceiling cluttered with fluorescent lights and fire sprinkler heads. Archie could hear the drinking fountain humming.

  Sanchez looked alarmed.

  “She’s sick,” he said. “She said she’s having a really bad period. In the car on the way over she said her cramps hurt so bad she couldn’t even talk. I found her some Midol. But now she says she feels like she might vomit.” Sanchez’s eyes flashed with concern. He was a man who only had sons. “Is this normal?”

  Archie had to work hard to suppress a smile. “Where is she?” he asked.

  Sanchez led Archie down the orange and gold carpet, through a pair of maple double doors with gold letters that spelled out FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION, past an American flag planted in a floor stand, to a door with a women’s restroom symbol on it.

  “I’ll check on her,” Archie said.

  He approached the door. Sanchez hung back, pacing. Archie knocked. “Susan?” he called.

  “Um, I’m really bleeding a lot,” Susan’s voice called through the door. “And throwing up. You don’t want to come in here. It’s like The Exorcist.”

  Archie opened the door a crack. “It’s me,” he said. He could smell cigarette smoke and quickly entered the bathroom before Sanchez caught a whiff of it.

  The bathroom had one sink and three metal stalls. Two of the stall doors were open. The other one creaked open as Archie walked in. He could see Susan’s feet under the partition, two dirty Converse All Stars.

  As Archie came around the open stall he saw that Susan was sitting on the toilet, fully clothed, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. The gold dress was stuffed in an open brown paper grocery bag and she was back in her street clothes—tights, the silver skirt, a tank top with the red hooded sweatshirt over it. The hood was up. She’d scrubbed all her makeup off. There was still pink liquid bathroom soap around her hairline. Her sweatshirt had dark spots where water from the sink had splattered on it.

  “What took you so long?” Susan asked, ashing her cigarette into the toilet.

  “I had to make a call,” Archie said. He didn’t add, or Henry would have rushed the island with a SWAT team.

  “I did what you said,” Susan said. “I’ve barely said two words to him.”

  “He’s ready to call an ambulance,” Archie said. “I think you’ve traumatized him.”

  “Men really can’t handle menstruation,” Susan said, rolling her eyes. “It freaks you guys out.” Her gaze landed on his shoes. She looked impressed. “Are those Italian?”

  Archie looked down at his feet. “I don’t know.”

  Susan took a drag off her cigarette. “Now what?” she asked, grinning.

  She liked this, Archie realized. She was enjoying herself. He’d created a monster. “Now we talk to Sanchez,” Archie said.

  “But you said—”

  “We talk to him,” Archie said. “But we’re careful about what we say.”

  “Why?” Susan asked, pulling at a hole in the knee of her black tights.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Archie said. He tried to be diplomatic in how he put it. “But Leo had some reservations about how much Sanchez could be trusted.” Archie gave Susan a serious look. “Can you follow my lead?”

  Susan dropped her cigarette butt into the toilet water between her legs and brought a hand to her forehead in an exaggerated salute.

  Archie suspected that Susan Ward had never followed anyone’s lead in her life, but he didn’t see a lot of options. “I need you to lie to the FBI,” he said. “Can you do that?”

  CHAPTER

  21

  Archie glanced over at Susan. She was chewing on her fingernails, sleeves pulled ove
r her palms, hood up, reeking of stale cigarette smoke and hair spray. They were sitting across from Sanchez in a small, windowless room that had all the maneuverability and ambience of a storage closet. Sanchez was sitting ramrod-straight, eyeballing Susan like she might burst into flame.

  “What’s this space used for?” Archie asked Sanchez. Archie had been in the FBI interview rooms, and this wasn’t one of them. That was good. It meant that the room probably wasn’t equipped with a surveillance system, though with the FBI you never knew.

  “It’s clean,” Sanchez said. “No surveillance. We had a bunch of junior agents in here sorting paperwork for a big case.” He slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out a tin of mints, and snapped it open. “We can talk,” he said. He held the open tin across the table like a peace pipe. Neither Susan nor Archie took a mint. Sanchez closed the box and dropped it back in his pocket without taking one, either. The mints left a lingering fine dust of white peppermint-smelling powder floating in the air.

  Archie had known Sanchez for almost as long as Archie had known Henry. Sanchez had been the FBI liaison on the Beauty Killer case. He had put in as many hours as anyone on the task force. Now Archie found himself searching his memory for any signs that Sanchez might be corrupt. But he couldn’t come up with anything. No exotic vacations. No extravagant purchases. The man drove a twenty-year-old Honda Accord with a dented fender. Archie was the one trussed up in ridiculous, expensive clothes. Sanchez was wearing pale blue jeans and a tan jacket over a golf shirt. The jacket was khaki, with patch pockets and epaulets that made him look a little like a safari guide or zookeeper. Archie had seen Sanchez wear it dozens of times. The guy wasn’t exactly a clotheshorse. His parents still lived in Mexico. There was nothing flashy about him. Which just meant that if he was corrupt, he was careful. In the meantime, Carl Richmond was dead, and Raul Sanchez was now essentially running Leo’s undercover operation. If he wasn’t dirty, Leo needed him. If he was dirty, Leo was in serious danger. Either way, Archie had the feeling that he needed to parse what he told Sanchez right now very carefully. Leo’s life might depend on it.

  “I saw Leo,” Archie said. “Last night and again this morning.” He looked Sanchez in the eye, trying to communicate the seriousness of the situation without frightening Susan. “You need to get him out of there.”

  Sanchez sat up a little and uncrossed his arms. “He wants out?”

  “No,” Archie said, with a glance in Susan’s direction.

  Sanchez looked at Susan. “Give us a minute,” he said.

  Susan hesitated. Archie put a hand out, motioning for her to stay where she was. “She’s a part of this whether she wants to be or not,” Archie said. “And she already knows too much.” That was all true. But he also needed her here. He needed a witness. If Sanchez was dirty, then the conversation they were about to have might become important.

  Sanchez nodded and Susan relaxed back into her chair.

  “The party was a cover,” Archie said. “To get people on the island. They know they’re under surveillance, so they invited five hundred guests and hoped the more important ones would get lost in the shuffle.” Nice plan. Apparently it had worked.

  “What kind of meeting?” Sanchez asked.

  “Leo says they’re working on some deal with the Russians,” Archie said.

  Sanchez’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. The expression of surprise seemed authentic. “Did you see any of them? Can you identify players?”

  “It was a masquerade ball,” Susan said with an exasperated roll of her eyes. “As in, masks.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to look at pictures,” Archie said. He thought of the Russian outside Jack’s office. “Not everyone was wearing masks.”

  Sanchez fixed his attention on Susan. “Are you sure you didn’t see any of these people?” he asked. “Maybe you heard someone speaking Russian?”

  Susan nibbled on a cuticle.

  “Answer him,” Archie told her.

  “I didn’t see or hear any Russians,” Susan said. “Were they wearing fur hats?”

  “Fur hats?” Sanchez said.

  Susan sighed. “I’m kidding,” she said.

  “Tell him how you came to be there,” Archie said, leading her.

  Susan peeled something off her fingertip and chewed it. “Someone named Cooper came to my house,” she said. “He told me Leo wanted me to come to a party. He was insistent. He drove me out there. They got me all dressed up. But Leo didn’t know anything about it. Not until I saw him out there last night.”

  “They used her as leverage,” Archie said.

  “They wanted to ensure that Leo would do something for them,” Susan added.

  “And they let you go this morning,” Sanchez said. Archie could see him thinking, his eyes roving. After a few moments, Sanchez came to the inevitable conclusion. “Leo must have done what they wanted,” Sanchez said. His eyebrows knitted. “Any idea what it was?” he asked them.

  Actually, Archie had a pretty good idea. But he wasn’t going to tell Sanchez that. “No,” Archie said.

  “No,” Susan said. She frowned. “But it might have had something to do with the letter.”

  This got Sanchez’s attention. He fingered the flap of one of his safari jacket pockets. “The letter?” he said.

  Susan shrugged. “Last week. Leo gave it to me to mail. He seemed really nervous about it.”

  “Where is it?” Sanchez asked. “Do you have it?”

  “Have what?” Susan asked.

  Sanchez’s face was scarlet. “The letter,” he said.

  Susan looked from Sanchez to Archie, a picture of innocence. “I mailed it,” she said.

  Susan had delivered it perfectly, exactly as Archie had instructed her in the bathroom. If Sanchez was corrupt, he was bound to be paranoid. He would worry that Leo had learned Sanchez was dirty and that the letter incriminated him. At the very least it might buy Leo some time.

  Sanchez swallowed a few times. His forehead glowed. He touched the tips of his fingers to his mouth. “Do you remember the address on the letter?” he asked Susan.

  Susan offered an uncertain smile. “I think it was Oregon,” she said. Then she made a pained face and laid a hand on her lower abdomen. “Ouch,” she said. “There’s that uterine cramping again.”

  Sanchez’s roughcast features seemed to spasm. He glanced away, cleared his throat, and then put his palms on the tabletop. His gaze was steady now, his expression uncompromising. It was the expression that FBI agents practiced in the mirror. “I need to know everyone who was there,” Sanchez said. “I need you both to look at mug shots.” He cast a meaningful glance at Archie. “We can leave Leo out of it,” he said. He directed his attention at Susan. “I’ll get my assistant in here to walk you through the database. She won’t ask too many questions, and she can help you with your … female issues.” He raised his eyebrows at Susan. “Now, can Archie and I have the room for a minute?”

  “You want me to wait in the hall?” Susan asked. She was looking at Archie.

  “Just for a few moments,” Sanchez said.

  Susan was still looking at Archie.

  “It’s okay,” Archie said.

  She relented and pushed her chair back from the table, yanked the wrinkled paper bag of clothes from under her seat, and stalked out of the room into the hall. She didn’t close the door behind her and Sanchez had to get up and shut it and then sit back down.

  Archie pulled the compass out of his pocket and turned it in his hand under the table.

  Sanchez still had the G-man face on. “Suppose you tell me what’s going on,” he said.

  Archie lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t speak. He could feel the bottle of pills in his pants pocket, pressing into his leg like a hand on his thigh.

  “You know I’m an FBI agent, right?” Sanchez asked. “A trained investigator. Went to Quantico and everything.” He leaned forward slightly. “So, you want to tell me why you walked off that island wearing different clothes than the
ones you had on when you arrived?”

  Archie met Sanchez’s unblinking gaze. “I got dirty,” he said.

  The two men looked at each other for a minute, and then Sanchez shook his head. “I told you not to get involved,” he said.

  Archie couldn’t respond, not without telling Sanchez everything, and there was no way he was going to do that until he knew he could trust him.

  “These people are not your friends, man,” Sanchez said. “They don’t owe you anything. You think Jack’s daughter’s murder makes him like other grieving fathers? He counts on that. He’s preyed off public sympathy since her funeral. His daughter’s murder was the best thing to ever happen to his business. We gave him a walk for years after that. Then his freaky son Jeremy goes and gets himself murdered? Jack must have pinched himself, he was so happy.”

  Sanchez had a point. But right now Archie couldn’t entertain it.

  “Are you going to pull Leo out of there or not?” Archie asked. He spun the compass in slow circles on his palm.

  “It’s an active investigation,” Sanchez said. “I can’t comment.”

  “I see,” Archie said.

  Sanchez started to say something else, but hesitated. Archie wondered if he was thinking about the letter. “Thank you for your help,” Sanchez said.

  “Sure thing,” Archie said. He slid the compass back in his pocket as he stood. “By the way, you owe me three hundred and twenty-eight bucks for the tux.”

  “Wait,” Sanchez said. He rubbed his forehead. He looked conflicted, like he was struggling with something. Archie had a feeling this wasn’t about the tux. “Wait,” Sanchez said again. He exhaled slowly and then reached into the inside pocket of his khaki jacket and pulled out a folded piece of printer paper. “I shouldn’t be showing this to you,” he said. “But I think you have the right to know.”

  Archie took the paper and sat back down.

  “Gretchen was spotted crossing the border in Blaine two days ago,” Sanchez said.

  Archie stiffened. Blaine was just south of the border between Canada and Washington State, just a five-hour drive north on Interstate 5.