The Eyes of Others

by Mikael Carlson

  “So harboring Eugene Hollinger has landed you in a heap of trouble and now has cost you your job.”

  “I’m not harboring anyone, and the ineptitude of this government cost me my job. And as I explained to you in my office, Boston is not the leak you’re looking for.” That earns me an apprehensive look.

  “That day we spoke, you told me a source told you Hollinger was under surveillance. Who was that source?”

  “Garrett Turner.” I didn’t want to tell him, but there’s no point in hiding it now. He’ll find out anyway and I will only make matters worse by withholding the information. It’s not all that important anyway.

  “Garrett Turner was your source?”

  “Yes.” I get rewarded with a far different expression as he shares a look with another agent standing along the wall. “What it is, Agent Grimman?”

  “Director Turner was killed in an explosion outside of Joint Base Bolling-Anacostia an hour ago.”

  “What?”

  “He’s dead, Miss Attison. Murdered. Do you know why Colby Washington called you at three a.m. this morning?” Where did that question come from?

  “How is that releve―”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “I have no idea. He said something about needing to talk to Senator Ludwick.”

  “Has he ever made that request before?” Agent Grimman asks, studying my face as if he’s intent on finding deception.

  “No. I’ve never had any interaction with him before.”

  Grimman looks back to his buddy again but doesn’t say anything. Did the FBI perfect some sort of mental telepathy or something? He says nothing for a good minute, and the only sounds that fill the house are being made from the army of agents searching every corner of it.

  “Why did Boston kill Garrett?”

  “What are you talking about? He didn’t kill anyone!”

  “Director Garrett’s car was destroyed in the exact same manner that Boston and his friends used to blow up Agent Bruhte’s outside of the therapist’s house. The only difference was they didn’t melt the engine block with thermite this time.”

  “Wait, back up,” I demand angrily. “Are you telling me the guy tailing him at this therapist’s was in the FBI?”

  “He is part of my department.” I don’t think he meant to disclose that.

  “Isn’t that convenient? Maybe I will take a closer look at this warrant after all.”

  “I’m going to level with you, Miss Attison,” he says with a loud exhale of exasperation. “I need your help to find Hollinger.”

  “Even if I could help you, which I can’t, why would I do that?”

  “Because this whole mole hunt stinks. Because of all the media attention the convoy ambush, kidnappings, and assassination of the VP’s son are getting. Too many people have become involved in this. Somehow, your fiancé is in the middle of all this and I want to know why that is.”

  “I bet you do, because I do too. I love Boston, and if you think for a moment that I’m going to hand him over to the wolves hunting him, you’ve lost your mind. So save your fake sympathy.”

  “Don’t be stupid. You asked for my help when you thought Colby Washington was targeting your fiancé. This is me helping, but I can’t do anything if he is still on the run.”

  I wave a dismissive hand at him. He works for the federal government, and his pledge to help is about as good as the paper it’s written on. He’s no different than everyone else around here. All talk and no action. He just wants this off his desk, and if Boston hangs for it, he won’t lose an ounce of sleep over it so long as his boss adds another letter of commendation to his personnel file.

  “Look,” Grimman continues, “if you cooperate, it means you can get your job back on Capitol Hill. You can help him get his back at the DIA if it turns out this was all a misunderstanding. Right now, he’s a wanted felon and the prime suspect in one of the highest-profile leaks of our nation’s secrets since Snowden. Do you really want to be associated with that?”

  “Agent Grimman, do you really think I am going to betray my fiancé just so we can get our jobs back? Do you think we’re that shallow? He’s going to stay hidden until the truth comes out. As I’ve already told you, Boston had nothing to do with this.”

  “All evidence to the contrary. He is going to get fingered as a suspect in the murder of Garrett Turner. We will find him, and if we don’t, the D.C. police will. If he resists arrest with either of us, he might not make it out of that encounter alive. If you love him the way you say you do, you won’t let that happen. The only way out of this is to bring him in peacefully.”

  I don’t believe him for a second. If Boston gets linked to whatever happened to Garrett Turner, it will be because of suspicion, not evidence. This is just another tactic to try to secure my cooperation and it isn’t going to work. Boston is going to call me soon, but not on a phone they can monitor. That’s probably what they’re looking for here. It doesn’t matter. They can rip this house down to the studs and never find it.

  An agent shows up and whispers something to Agent Grimman. I’m assuming it’s the results of the search since the activity has died down dramatically. Now’s my best chance to get them out of here. I summon the best look of sheer defiance I can muster.

  “You want to find Boston? Find him yourself. You’re the FBI, after all, and, since you’re apparently done with your search, it’s time for you to get the hell out of my house.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you say that, Miss Attison,” he says, rising from the chair. “It would have been much simpler to do this my way, but rest assured, we’re going to find Eugene Hollinger, and you are going to help me whether you want to or not.”

  .

  ~ Chapter 49 ~

  Eugene “boston” hollinger

  “Hey, Doc, your friend’s got a sweet ride. She single?” Louisiana asks from the backseat of our borrowed Infinity QX80.

  Given Maryland’s tantrum earlier, needing to relocate was a foregone conclusion. Not trusting him to keep his twelve-hour pledge, we decided to do it sooner rather than later. Since the car Louisiana stole in Ivy City may have been identified by now, we chose to use Tara’s friend’s vehicle.

  “Does he ever stop?”

  “Only when he sleeps,” I say with a laugh. “Then he just acts like that in his dreams.”

  “Did we have to leave right away? I mean, is it safe for us to go out?” Tara asks innocently.

  “Girl, are you nervous or something?” Louisiana mocks from the backseat.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve never been a fugitive before.”

  “We can’t run the risk of Maryland not being true to his word and going straight to the police,” I explain. “We were lucky he didn’t go straight to the feds after he left the first time.”

  “You don’t think he’ll keep his word to give you the twelve hours?”

  “You can’t trust that punk bitch,” Louisiana answers for me. “That weasel would sell out his mama to save his own ass. I’d bet he’s already singin’ like a canary.”

  There’s nothing to say to that. As much as I want to argue that Maryland would never do that, I can’t. He’s always been one to toe the line and could always be counted on to do things by the book. Rocking the boat is not his forte and he always opts to stay out of trouble. Now that we have landed him on a wanted poster, he’ll be itching to get off it and to return some normalcy to his life.

  “How much farther is this place?” Louisiana exasperates from the backseat of our luxury vehicle.

  “It’s up here on the right,” Tara replies, pointing to a towering glass building.

  “What’s that up ahead on the left?”

  “The Chevy Chase Pavilion,” she responds simply. “It’s a shopping mall.”

  “Hey, Louisiana? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Yeah, yeah, jump out with Tara. I’ll take the car and park it there and meet you back here.”

  “Why park the car there? T
he building has plenty of parking.”

  “Because, my love, this car has a navigation system, which means it has GPS. Once Maryland is done givin’ us up, the police will go to your friend’s place and figure out that her car is missin’.”

  “If they find it there, won’t they figure out we came here?”

  “Maybe, but it’s doubtful,” I chime in before Louisiana can continue to flirt with her. “The mall is a public area with a lot of transportation options including that Metro station. They won’t immediately think we stuck around the area.”

  “Okay, so why don’t we all park the car at the mall and walk back here.”

  “See, bro? She can’t stand to be away from me for even a few minutes!” Louisiana boasts. Tara rolls her eyes.

  “The mall will be covered with closed-circuit video. If the feds or police check it, they’ll be looking for three people, not one.”

  I pull the car up to the curb and we all climb out. Louisiana takes my place in the driver’s seat and takes the car farther up the road before making a left into the mall parking garage. We wait next to the small garden in the front of the building, careful to try to look natural and not draw unwanted attention given the late hour.

  “It wasn’t that long of a walk,” I tell him when he finally joins us after almost a half hour. “Ever heard of a little thing called exercise?”

  “The last time I walked that far, it was to the motor pool back on the airbase in Iraq,” he sputters between breaths as we walk up to the front door of the building where Tara’s friend is waiting for us, and probably has been for the last hour.

  “Come in, come in,” he greets us, the nervous edge in his voice drawing my immediate suspicion.

  “Boston, Louisiana, this is Steve. Steve, this is Boston and Louisiana.”

  “Unique names,” he says with an awkward handshake, prying his eyes off of Tara to meet ours for a fleeting moment. “Pleased to meet you. Let’s head upstairs to the clinic.”

  This guy is as gauche as you get. He’s the product of mixing Steve Buscemi with most portrayals of socially awkward serial killers. He looks about thirty, but tall, gaunt, and with unkempt hair, he could just as easily be forty.

  “You trust this guy?” I whisper to Louisiana as Tara chats amicably with him ahead, on the way to the elevators.

  “Bro, he’s got a bigger crush on the doc than I do. Yeah, I think we can trust him.”

  “This is where the magic happens,” Steve explains as our elevator arrives at the floor the clinic is located on.

  It looks pretty much as I thought it would. The reception area looks just like the typical doctor’s office, complete with the plants, chairs, and obligatory bad art hung on the wall. This place has a much more post-modern feel though. I’m hoping the rooms are cozier, or the feeling of being transported back to my stay at Landsthul in Germany, following our evacuation from Iraq, will keep me from sleeping.

  “The Sölvason Sleep Disorders Center provides comprehensive care for patients with a wide range of disorders, from apnea to night terrors,” he tells us in a well-rehearsed monologue. “Our patients enjoy the advantages of an expertly trained staff, the latest, cutting-edge diagnostic equipment, and personalized attention in a serene and comfortable environment. I have been trying to lure Doctor Winters into working here for years.”

  “I bet he has,” Louisiana grumbles. I had the same thought.

  “She explained your case to me, uh …”

  “Boston.”

  “Yes, Boston, of course. I’ve never heard anything quite like it. It’s very fascinating.”

  “If you say so. She said you have some things that can help sharpen these memories,” I tell him, trying to move the conversation from a sales pitch to something more constructive.

  “I have certain compounds that help with lucid dreaming. Your situation is unique … I don’t know if it will work for this.”

  “I won’t hold you personally responsible if it doesn’t, Steven.”

  “What kind of compounds are we talkin’ about here?” Louisiana asks, more interested than he should be.

  “Galantamine. It’s a cholinesterase inhibitor that blocks the action of acetylcholinesterase, an enzyme that breaks down the neurotransmitter acetylcholine in the brain.”

  “Speak English, bro.”

  “It’s a natural supplement the Chinese have been using as a memory enhancer for centuries. It is FDA approved and is widely used as a memory-improvement supplement for Alzheimer’s patients. We have begun using it as an oneirogen, or a dream enhancing supplement, with very exciting results.” This guy clearly likes his job almost as much as he likes Tara.

  “Boston, you should know, this chemical compound may serve to lower the threshold to lucid dreaming and thus make it easier and more likely for dreamers to become lucid.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?” I verify, confused by Tara’s warning.

  “It is, but it also has effects on the dreams of the people who use it because of the chemical influences. It alters them and, if it can do that to dreams, we have to assume it can have that effect on memories,” she explains.

  “As in change them?”

  “There’s no true way to know.”

  “Unless we try it.”

  “You’re all balls and no brains, bro,” Louisiana adds.

  “Excellent. If you’re ready to begin, Tara can get you set up in one of our rooms.”

  “I got a question. If this is a sleep center, why isn’t anyone here, you know … sleepin’?” The comment causes Steven to laugh.

  “We provide a myriad of services here, and many of them are outpatient. We are very busy on weekends, as you might imagine, so we give the staff Wednesday and Thursday nights off. We have the place to ourselves tonight.”

  “Steve, I actually crashed pretty hard earlier today. I’m not sure I can sleep.”

  “I can help with that too,” he says with a smile. “I’ll be back in a jiff. Tara, can you bring him to one of the rooms and set up the EEG?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I have to make a quick call first,” I tell her. “Can I meet you there?”

  “Okay. I’ll give Steve a hand then and meet you in room eight in ten minutes or so,” she says with a smile before walking off after our guide.

  “Easy, bro.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve got the jealous boyfriend look on your face.”

  “You’re delusional. I’m engaged.”

  “I know. Gina’s smokin’ hot, but there is somethin’ about the doc, isn’t there?”

  “Stop projecting your own fantasies onto me,” I tell him with a punch to the arm before I move to the corner of the patient waiting area.

  I pull out the untraceable burner cell and power it up. I really miss my smartphone. After it comes alive, I punch redial and get sent straight to voice mail. I figured she would have her phone next to her waiting for my call, but I guess not. Where could she be?

  .

  ~ chapter 50 ~

  FBI agent zach bruhte

  The scene is utter chaos. Explosions draw a huge response from first responders who arrive with sirens blaring to a confused and hectic scene. Washington, D.C., is the nation’s capital though, so add a gazillion federal agencies into the mix and you get the pandemonium we have here.

  Despite the force of the explosion, neither my partner nor I required an immediate trip to the hospital. The clerk working the store got a face full of glass and was rushed to the emergency room. A couple of motorists driving by at the time got into fender benders and were also taken to the hospital as a precaution. Fortunately, none of the injuries are life threatening. The only fatality was Garrett Turner.

  “How are you doing, buddy?” I ask as I hobble over to the back of the ambulance Remsen is sitting in as an EMT checks him out.

  “It feels like I got hit by a truck,” he advises me. I know the feeling. My whole body hurts after surviving an explo
sion for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

  “You did get blown through a window.”

  “Yeah, all because you wanted donuts,” Remsen says with a smirk.

  “And if I didn’t, you would have hit the same wall I did. I would gladly have traded.”

  Emergency services personnel pulled me away from the conflagration when they arrived. Together with their explanation of where they found me, I was able to piece together what happened. The force of the blast propelled me twenty feet into the retaining wall separating the parking lot from the road above. Remsen was knocked through the window of the snack shop and into a row of shelves containing car supplies. We both have cuts and bruises but are otherwise okay.

  The media has been corralled into their own area on the opposite side of Pennsylvania Avenue to allow the police and fire personnel to do their work. Fleets of satellite vans have their antennas extended and a small army of reporters are jostling for the best positions and angles to the still smoldering wreckage to report from. One more story to add to the voracious machine that is the modern news cycle.

  I spot Agent Grimman talking to a local cop who points in our direction. This is the second time he’s visited me standing near the back of an ambulance after an explosion. I don’t plan on letting there be a third time. He walks over once he spots me.

  “About time you got here.”

  “Are you kidding? I got here fifteen minutes ago. It took me that long to find you guys in this mess and make my way through the horde of media. Are you both okay?” Grimman asks. It’s touching how concerned he is for our well-being.

  “Yeah, we’re just great, can’t you tell?” Remsen moans.

  “We’re better than the man who was incinerated in a massive fireball thirty seconds after I finished talking to him.”