The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  Right now, she needed to steer things back into her control.

  No matter the circumstances of his surprise arrival, of their past interaction, the fact was he was virtually a ghost, one that had shown up at her crime scene and entered uninvited.

  The details surrounding his story were the only thing that had kept her from bringing him in immediately, but that was a precious little latitude that would disappear fast if things didn’t start making sense.

  “To what?” Tim replied.

  “Put it together,” Davis replied. “Why you’re here, what is going on, how the hell you’re alive?”

  The first response was a sigh, the sort of gesture that was loaded with meaning, giving her the distinct impression of something she didn’t want to hear.

  “And remember, I can and by all means should hold you for cutting the tape back there, so don’t even try to lie to me.”

  In her periphery, she could see him flash a look her way, one eyebrow cocked, before turning back to face forward.

  Driving to nowhere in particular, Davis wound her way around the lake, keeping the water just out of sight to her left, letting the serpentine path of the shore guide them.

  Overhead, the morning sun was climbing higher into the sky, another hot day just starting, waves of heat rising from the asphalt before them.

  “I was in the army,” Tim began, “but obviously I didn’t die.”

  Once more, he paused, casting her another glance. “But more than once I wished I had.”

  Not sure what he was saying, where this might be going, Davis steeled herself, already thinking through how she would react if this was to get ugly, if he were about to confess to suffering from mental illness, to having done those horrible things to his uncle. Sweat appeared on her brow as she slowed the Bronco, reaching down and tapping at the heel of her weapon.

  Beside her, Tim seemed oblivious to her movements, his stare now straight ahead, his voice detached, as if he were somewhere else.

  If this was an act, a ploy to get her guard down, or maybe an extension of whatever he’d been going through, she couldn’t be certain.

  She did know there was no way she was about to loosen up just yet.

  “Does the name Eric Baxter mean anything to you?” Tim asked, the question seeming to come from far afield.

  Feeling her brows come together, Davis looked toward him, making no effort to hide the confusion.

  Hoping it would be enough to hide the other emotions just beneath the surface, the immediate clench they brought to her core.

  “Eric Baxter?” she managed. “Should it?”

  “Not really,” Tim replied. “Maybe if you were with ATF, or worked closer to Atlanta, but not around here, thank God.”

  Fighting to process what the question could mean, why it had been asked, how wrong the backend of his statement had been, Davis watched a truck move past before making a right-hand turn, the sparkling surface of the lake peeking at them through the trees.

  “Eric Baxter,” she repeated, hoping it would prompt him to move forward.

  A full minute passed before he did.

  “There’s this running joke in the military that says army math is five is ten and ten is twenty,” Tim said. “Which, pretty straightforward, if they can get you to sign up for a second tour, put in a full ten, they know you’re already halfway to a pension. They’ve got you for the haul after that.

  “Well, not me. Ten was plenty. I’d seen enough, done enough, I was ready to come home.”

  Davis had never heard the expression before, though there had been plenty of enlisted men on the reservation to provide credence to what he was saying.

  Very rarely did someone go into the military looking to be a lifer, but all too often, that’s exactly what happened.

  “My last posting was down at Benning,” Tim said. “Rode out my final month or two, finished up my paperwork.”

  Again, he took a moment, pushing out a long breath.

  “Wasn’t a free man more than a couple of days when it happened.”

  Wanting so badly to know what he was referring to, even more, what it had to do with the situation they were now facing, Davis opted to remain silent.

  Sooner or later, he would get where he needed to.

  Right now, he was talking, and that was a start.

  Slowing the Bronco further still, Davis nudged it to the side of the road and pulled off onto the shoulder, the vehicle sitting at an angle, the passenger tires in a shallow ditch, dead grass poking up around them.

  “When what happened?”

  Glancing out the window, Tim seemed to take stock of where they were, the fact they had stopped, before turning to face her.

  “You ever heard the expression riding the subway?”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The heat behind Deputy Marshal Abby Lipski’s cheeks still burned hot, even several hours after the encounter with the woman. Time after time, she alternated between seeing the open sneer of the person before her and imagining Tim Scarberry somewhere, laughing at her incompetence.

  The woman she could forgive. If in her position and a host of federal officers showed up asking questions there was no way she could answer, she would be indignant or worse as well.

  Scarberry – for everything he had already done, was continuing to put them through – she had a much tougher time reconciling in her head.

  If left to her own devices, she would just cut him loose. Clearly, he had decided that their protection was no longer needed, that he would just take his chances with the Baxters or whoever else the world might throw his way.

  After all, he was in the military. Surely, he had more skills alone than the entire WITSEC program that was trying to keep him alive.

  Each time that thought crept in though, she was forced to push it to the side, knowing even so much as voicing a thing like that would end her career in seconds flat. The program had never once lost someone under their care, a point of extreme pride for everybody affiliated.

  To suggest they just push someone away would not only violate that, it would force them to acknowledge how badly they had handled Scarberry.

  A double black mark if there ever was one.

  The only option that left her with was to find the bastard, to go wherever it took, track him down and bring him back. From there, it could be suggested that his protection be removed.

  Until then, her standing as a marshal was tied to him, a thought enough to make her stomach contort.

  The plane was already on the tarmac waiting as Lipski pulled the SUV up to the small commuter airport outside of Bangor. The pavement was damp from a light mist falling in the air, the digital thermometer on the dash stating the temperature was in the high fifties.

  Somehow, even a bit colder than they were used to back in Portland.

  Inside the SUV, nobody said a word, the occasional glance to the rearview mirror showing that all three of her passengers were intently staring out the window, their features twisted in various states of thought.

  Not that it was hard to imagine what was hidden behind their grim demeanors, the day a disaster, an exercise in the worst imaginable scenario their organization could face.

  “Marshal, I want to thank you for being so accommodating to us here today,” Lipski said, swinging wide so as to leave a clear path out in front of the plane. “Please know the same will be shown to you should you ever have need of visiting the other Portland.”

  The line was meant as a half-hearted attempt at a joke, a bit of shared knowledge, some levity to end their brief time together.

  Weak, but a hell of a lot better than everybody trying to fumble their way through discussing what had happened an hour before.

  “Absolutely,” the marshal said, the word coming out a bit distorted, like he was surprised at being addressed directly. “I look forward to it.”

  Nodding once, Lipski parked along the edge of the tarmac, exiting without another word. The first one out, the air seemed to have d
ropped five degrees, the damp chill of it clamping around her, her coat swinging from her body.

  Raising a hand to block her hair from blowing into her face, Lipski circled around the front of the vehicle, hearing car doors open in her wake. Not bothering to so much as glance back, she walked straight to the lowered ramp of the plane, the low hum of the engine letting it be known that it was activated and ready.

  Just as she had instructed from the road a half hour before.

  The flimsy stairs bowed just slightly beneath her weight as she ascended, climbing the half-dozen steps before entering the cabin, the interior unnaturally warm after her short walk outside.

  More blood rushed to her cheeks as she paused, straightening her hair and clothes, the remainder of her team peering back at her, all eager for a debrief.

  Eagerness she didn’t have the least bit of interest in humoring at the moment.

  Taking a few steps further into the cabin, she dropped herself into the same seat she had ridden out in, waiting as Marshals Burrows and Marlucci followed her in order.

  Once everybody was inside, she lifted the phone from its carrier affixed to the wall beside her and said, “Captain, we’re all present and accounted for, ready to take off when you are.”

  “Roger that, ma’am,” he said, the automated door to the cabin rising into place beside them, taking with it the sound of rushing wind and the biting cold of the day.

  Just as fast, the sound of the engines moving into a higher gear could be heard.

  Leaning forward in her seat, Lipski shrugged out of her coat, leaving it bunched behind her. Shifting her body until she was comfortable, she clasped her seatbelt before finally looking up, the team each managing to be pointed her direction without looking directly at her.

  Like being in the conference room the day before all over again.

  “Well,” she said, her voice elevated to be heard over the engines, drawing the stares of everybody present, “as you all can tell, Tim Scarberry is not with us.”

  Nobody said anything, even gave a gesture, in response.

  “He is not in Maine, nor does it appear that he has ever been.”

  Pressing her lips tight for a moment, she added, “Looks like this entire time, the whole act of calling back here was nothing more than a ploy, something disguised to keep us off his tail.”

  As she said the words, more heat rose to her cheeks, equal parts embarrassment and hostility.

  “So as of right now, we are headed south. There’s no point in returning to Portland right now, no chance he’d head back there.

  “Just like there’s no shot he’s in Chicago, or stayed in Indianapolis, or anywhere else in the Midwest. Best guess, he just did that to shake whoever he thought might be following him, headed back to the only place we know for sure that he has any connections.”

  If Scarberry had actually returned home to Tennessee, Lipski didn’t have a prayer of knowing for certain. Educated guessing told her that landing in Chicago and headed to Indianapolis put him on a southeastern trajectory that would take him that direction.

  Years of experience with the program told her that people always had a tendency to head toward home when things got bad, which was what the recorded message he’d gotten a few nights earlier seemed to indicate.

  “So right now, we have about three hours of flight time. That means you all have two hours to figure out where those phone calls were really going all those months, who was on the other end, and what the hell happened to them to suddenly cause Scarberry to go on the run.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “Have I ever failed you before? Been insufficient to get done whatever it was you needed?” Radney Creel asked, the questions out before he even realized he was speaking, going from internal monologue to audible uncertainty in a millisecond.

  On the other end of the line, the first response was silence, the pause long and pointed, meant to make a point.

  Which it did.

  Leaning back away from the wheel, Creel took a deep breath, raising a hand to his face and wiping away the sweat dripping from his upper lip.

  “This is not a time for ego,” Vic Baxter replied, his tone like iron over the line. “But since yours seems to need a bit of stroking at the moment, no, you have never failed me, but that’s why I sent them.”

  A crease appeared between Creel’s brow as he tried to compute what Baxter was getting at, attempted to decipher how his employer sending along three musclebound imbeciles could possibly be a good thing.

  As he saw it, the only thing they would do was get in the way, a trio of brutes thrashing around, drawing attention where it was neither wanted nor needed.

  “Think of it like chess,” Baxter said. “Sometimes, you have to sacrifice a few pawns to get yourself in position for the win.

  “I just sent you some pawns. Use them.”

  No further words were exchanged, no other directives as the line went dead, the call cut off. Pulling it away from his face, Creel wiped perspiration from the screen, thumbing away from the call and back over to the camera still streaming behind the cabin.

  Just as had been the case for the previous half hour, there was no sign of movement, Scarberry and the deputy having left together in her Bronco.

  Given that he was now positioned a half-mile down the road from the Sheriff’s Department, he knew they hadn’t returned there, but where they had managed to go, he couldn’t be certain.

  Perhaps to the home of the old man, Scarberry being the only person alive who seemed to know where that might be.

  Maybe even somewhere else, somewhere that would have more information they thought might be useful.

  Not that Creel greatly cared where they were, knowing there was no way Scarberry was going anywhere just yet.

  He’d come clear across the country to see to his adopted uncle. At the very least, he was going to be around long enough to bury him.

  Casting the cell phone onto the seat beside him, Creel climbed out, feeling the midday blaze hot against his scalp. Swinging the door shut behind him, he walked around to the pickup sitting parallel to his, three overgrown hulks all leaning against the bed, elbows resting along the side of it, hands hanging down over the edge.

  Just a group of good old boys taking a lunch break in a parking lot, much the same as a thousand other meetings like it all over the South.

  The sort of thing that not one person driving by had even thought to glance over at, including the sheriff himself a few minutes earlier.

  Despite that, Creel couldn’t help but feel animosity rise at their presence, just three more people he didn’t want or ask for.

  Already he was dealing with Pyle and his habits and his cryptic messages, still trying to determine who E was and how he tied into everything.

  Now at least he’d been given the green light to use these boys as throwaways, completely expendable weapons at his disposal.

  “That was the boss,” Creel said, taking up a position around the bed of the truck, squaring things off at two per side. “Said we’ve got the green light to do what we need to.”

  In response, two of the three nodded, the final one cracking a thin smile.

  As a group, they managed to look imposing enough, striated muscle and veins covering their arms, a deep splash of sun coating everything, giving them extra definition.

  To peer closer though, it was obvious how young they were, their faces unlined, knuckles smooth.

  Doubtful that any of the three had ever been in anything resembling a real fight.

  “So here’s the plan,” he said. “Right now, we know that our guy is with the female deputy from the Sheriff’s Department down the road here. We also know they haven’t come back, and they haven’t returned to the cabin.”

  Around him, the young men listened intently, their faces drawn up tight, as if hearing a national security briefing on important matters.

  “So that means first thing, we need to get eyes on them,” Creel said. “I didn’t do it ea
rlier because I was only one person and it would have been too easy to spot a tail out here on these country roads. With two of us, though...”

  He let his voice trail off there, hoping they would draw on the insinuation he was trying to make.

  Their task was to find the target, get a firm visual, and then report to him, who presumably would be following along as well, trading off with them whenever necessary.

  Not that he had any interest in doing such a thing.

  He just needed to know if they were going somewhere else that he could use as a pinch point later.

  “What are they driving?” the young man beside him asked.

  “Tan Bronco,” Creel replied, “the emblem and name of the Sheriff’s Department stenciled down the side.”

  Pretty much the only vehicle in the county with such markings, though he didn’t bother adding that.

  Right now, he didn’t want them realizing that he was viewing them as chum and nothing more.

  “And when we spot them?” the one directly across from him asked.

  Pondering the question a moment, Creel let a thin smile appear. Shoving back from the bed of the truck, he patted it twice, drifting toward his rig.

  “Well, you know how much the boss appreciates initiative in his employees.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “Riding the subway?” Lou asked, the look on her face letting me know she thought I was just feeding her a line of crap. “Is that some sort of military thing?”

  Close, in that it was a government-sanctioned term, but light years off in terms of which agency and what it actually meant.

  “No,” I replied. “It’s a Witness Protection thing.”

  I hated speaking in half sentences, doling out tiny bite-sized morsels at a time, about as much as I liked talking about any of this in general.

  If I had my druthers, none of this would be necessary. I would have bounced from the cabin ten minutes before Lou arrived, would have retrieved my duffel from the woods and the Charger from the motel, and been on my way.