“It was so vivid. I was at a gas station.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was putting gas in a car. A red one,” I explain, straining to remember every detail. It’s easier this time.
“And?”
“I was talking to someone.”
“Focus on the face. Who was it?”
“The guy from outside your apartment,” I tell her, reconstructing in my mind what I saw.
“What did you say to him?”
“Nothing. I got a call on my cell and it interrupted us.”
Tara slides closer to me on the edge of the bed, leaning closer and causing her shirt to hang far too low on her chest. She isn’t wearing a bra. I force myself to look at her face.
“Close your eyes and remember. You got a call. What did the man you were talking to do?” she asks, now meeting me with her eyes.
“He just walked away.”
“Okay, you’re on the phone now. What did you say to the caller?”
“I’m surprised to hear from you,” I recall.
“Who was on the other line?”
“It was muffled … I don’t know,” I say, opening my eyes.
This is so frustrating. I’m already forgetting the memory I saw. Tara sitting next to me dressed like that really isn’t persuading me to remember it.
“Close your eyes and focus on the dream, Boston. This could be the key to the answers you’re searching for. Put yourself back there in your mind. What else was said?” she probes.
“Something about business being done … my name was mentioned.”
“How was your name mentioned?”
“I am being set up to take the fall.”
“You said it or the voice on the other end?” she continues to press.
“I did.”
“What did you say?”
I think back to the last part of the conversation. It’s fading so quickly. What I remember is clear, but pieces of the dream are starting to slip away.
“He said I’m as good as out of the way, and now it’s his turn. He’s going to destroy me.”
“Whose turn?”
“The guy at the car.”
“Listen to the guy on the phone. Focus on the tenor, the cadence, the pitch. You know the voice. You know who it is. Now tell me, who is it?”
“It’s Colby Washington!” I say, shocked at the realization. “There was something else at the end. I heard something. A ringing, I think.”
“And then?”
I tense up. I know exactly who I was. It all makes sense now, especially when I think back to the other dream. It was the same red car. I should have recognized the swagger in the voice. And because I was watching the news, I know exactly why everything went all black. It was the last memory he would ever make.
“Oh my God!”
“Boston, what is it?” Tara asks, putting her hand on mine.
“I was Garrett Turner. I just saw the final moments of his life.”
“Boston, he’s dead. You couldn’t have―”
“I know what I saw, Tara,” I argue, certain about these dreams for the first time ever. “It was him. There’s no doubt about it.”
“Then I was wrong about how you’re experiencing these memories,” she concludes, shaking her head. “I was wrong all along.”
I think about that for a moment. Her original theory was that I somehow tap into the subconscious of someone I know while I’m sleeping and that’s how I am able to experience their memories. That idea is out the window. Turner is dead, and I can’t tap into the memory of someone who isn’t alive.
“You’ve been right more than you’ve been wrong. Maybe it’s more complicated than you thought. Maybe I somehow downloaded the memory before he died?”
“Downloaded?” she asks, curious. It’s as plausible a theory as any right now. Right now I don’t care how it works.
“Tara, it doesn’t matter,” I say, grabbing her hands. “I just got the biggest piece of the puzzle. “Garrett Turner is dead because Colby killed him.”
.
~ chapter 54 ~
eric “maryland” williams
Washington has plenty of hole-in-the-wall diners to grab a meal once you get out of the touristy areas of the city. Places like this don’t attract the out of town visitors here to visit monuments, or anyone with a middle-class income for that matter. I’m not worried about the FBI finding me here as much as I am about getting food poisoning. This is the type of eatery where you look at the sanitary rating instead of the Zagat one.
After risking an uncomfortable night in an economy motel, complete with lumpy mattress and signs exclaiming how they offer HBO, I’m looking forward to putting this whole ordeal behind me. I showered without soap, haven’t shaved or changed clothes in days, and generally look like a vagrant. A cheap diner is both the only thing I can afford and the only place that would ever let me in.
Between the motel, Uber car, metro fare, and a couple of fast food stops, the hundred dollars I had in my wallet is pretty much gone. I’m down to my last ten bucks. Fortunately, breakfast is cheap and sitting down for a meal offers me a comfortable place to make a decision.
“You want more coffee, love?” the waitress asks as she makes her rounds with a steaming pot.
“It’s tea, and no, thank you,” I tell her before she stomps off with her pot.
The morning newspaper I liberated from the booth next to mine doesn’t have many more details than the evening news did. I toss it aside. Cable news has become too depressing to watch. When the anchor transitioned to other stories last night, it was about a new video ISIS released with the two American kidnap victims from the convoy ambush kneeling in the sands of Iraq or Syria again in their orange jumpsuits.
Their demands are simple―the complete withdrawal of all American troops from the Middle East. Anything less and they will execute the prisoners. Since America doesn’t negotiate with terrorists, they’re as good as dead. As cold as that is, it’s the truth and everyone knows it.
Right now, the nation’s intelligence agencies are hard at work sifting through every piece of intelligence to figure out where they are so a special operations team can swoop in and rescue them in time. I should be one of those resources. I should be at my desk analyzing the data and helping. Instead, I’m a fugitive.
I’m hiding in some ridiculous excuse for a diner because I placed my faith in a friend who may very well not be in his right mind. I stood by as they broke law after law. Louisiana could have killed him in that stunt. He could have killed one of us in his response. The whole thing was surreal and completely ludicrous.
Part of me shares Boston’s quest. Part of me believes him when he says we were targeted over there. Part of me wants to help him find that person. Part of me wants to let others do it.
I can’t condone what they’ve done. As much as I want answers, I’m not as willing to sacrifice my life and livelihood to get them as he is. There is a process in place for this by people who are experts at catching traitors to our country. Boston needs to let them do their job, and I need to get back to doing mine.
“Can I get the check, please?” I ask the inattentive waitress as she breezes by me.
I’m going to go to the FBI, not the police. The police only care about the explosions. The FBI are going to be more sensitive to the bigger picture of what is really going on here. They are going to ask the questions that go beyond who did it. They are going to want to know why and how this all coincides with their mole hunt.
What am I going to tell them? How do I defend not going to them much sooner? Would Turner still be alive if I had, or was his death inevitable at the hands of whoever is the real mole? So many questions, and no real answers.
The waitress returns with the check and I check my wallet. I don’t have enough for a tip, not that she really deserves one. I get out of my booth and pay my bill at the register. I get a stern look from her as she realizes that I didn’t leave a gratuity for her services,
if you can call them that.
I step out onto the sidewalk at the front of the diner and glance at my watch. It’s getting close to noon and it is time to embrace my fate. Boston’s twelve hours are long up.
.
~ chapter 55 ~
FBI agent zack bruhte
“It’s almost one in the afternoon. Where the hell have you been?” Grimman barks.
“The hospital, just like you ordered. Then I stopped at home for a shower and change of clothes.”
“It took you that long to get checked out, discharged, and cleaned up?”
“I may have made a detour first,” I confess.
“If you say a bar―”
“Colby was on the phone with Garrett when he died,” I interrupt in the least subtle change of subject I can manage.
“That’s not unusual, Zach, he worked for the man. Now, about where you were.”
“You’re right. They worked together for years. So why would he call from a burner phone?”
“What?”
“The number we traced from Garrett’s cell carrier was a prepaid mobile phone number,” I explain.
“So how do you know it was Colby?”
“The NSA. Thanks to them we learned that phone only called one other number almost every week for the last year. Turns out that was another burner phone, but last night, it called another number.”
“Whose?”
“Gina Attison’s cell phone.”
“Eugene Hollinger’s fiancée?”
“Yup. Remsen and I dropped in on her on the way to the hospital.”
“It’s about ten miles out of the way. In the wrong direction,” Grimman scolds.
“The nav in the car is broken. Anyway, he had her look it up on her phone.”
“She cooperated?”
“She didn’t want us to search the house again. Apparently she had a bad experience with that,” I grin, knowing Grimman probably told his team to be less than gentle with her knickknacks. “She told me the caller was Colby Washington.”
“You told her that you used the NSA to track down the information on that burner phone?”
“Hell no. I lied and told her the carrier gave it to me. That’s hardly the point though. Colby Washington is in up to his eyeballs in this mess.”
“Interesting,” Grimman reflects, rubbing the stubble on his chin, “but not as interesting as what I uncovered.”
“What?”
He waves me down the hall to where the conference rooms are. For as large as the FBI Headquarters building is, our section of it is relatively small. It takes less than a minute to get there.
“It’s not so much what as who,” he tells me, opening the door to the small meeting room.
“Mister Williams, I’m sorry for the delay, we’ll be with you in a few minutes,” Grimman tells him before closing the door.
Seeing Eric Williams in the room is a bit of a shock to me. Boston and his friends may not be master criminals, but they know how to stay low and that is making them increasingly difficult to track down. I’m wondering which of the fatal mistakes this one made that got him pinched.
“Where did you catch him?”
“We didn’t. He walked right in the front door and turned himself in.” That explains it.
“Has he talked?”
“Are you kidding?” Grimman beams. “He hasn’t stopped since he got here. I’ve had five agents in there taking notes while we record just to ensure we didn’t miss anything.”
“What did he say?”
“The short story? He claims Hollinger is seeing other people’s memories in his dreams. You have to be high to believe that.”
“Don’t be so sure, Tom. It explains why Tara Winters is involved.”
“The doctor?”
“She’s a trained psychologist who happens to specialize in dream therapy.”
“That’s a real field? I thought it was something reserved for hippies and psychics.”
I’m not about to tell my boss that I’m beginning to believe Hollinger’s version of events and what’s happening to him. I read the doctor’s notes after Garrett Turner had me break into her place and steal them. She seems to believe what is happening to him is real, and has the medical science to prove it. As incredible as it sounds, I’m not going to be as quick as others to discount it. My job is to bring him in, not offer an opinion on his diagnosis.
“Did Williams say Hollinger was the mole?” I ask, getting back to the heart of the whole matter.
“No. Williams here thinks he’s fruit loops, but not the mole.”
“So why the hell did he turn himself in? He has to have something to gain by doing it. What’s his agenda?”
“We haven’t gotten that far yet,” my boss tells me.
“Okay. Let’s go find out.”
.
~ chapter 56 ~
gina attison
I’m walking around like a common criminal. Having a pair of FBI agents as a shadow is not a common experience for me, nor a welcome one. I cannot let this become the new normal.
Coming to Union Station is a gamble. It’s certain to raise a few eyebrows at the FBI and will have these plainclothes agents more attentive than usual. On the plus side, it’s packed full of people who make it harder to follow me discretely and watch my every move at the same time. Like most major transportation centers, the activity here is distracting.
Union Station is not only a transit hub for Amtrak, it’s also a major tourist area close to Capitol Hill. In addition to the commuters who rely on it, the station sees millions of tourists a year. As with all busy and well-known places, the popularity bred the need for restaurants, cafés, and even a shopping mall that I am heading for.
I swing into Starbucks for a coffee and continue to peruse the shops like I don’t have a care in the world. As if a newly unemployed woman whose fiancé is being chased by the FBI and suspected of high treason isn’t without anything to worry about. Regardless, I am trying to make the visit here appear as normal as possible.
It’s busy in here, but not obscenely so. Still, people pass close enough to me that we occasionally bump. It gets annoying, especially for someone like me who cherishes personal space. It must be far worse for the two men trying to keep me in their line of sight.
Reaching the end of the street-level shops, I duck into a Victoria’s Secret. I dare them to follow me in here. As I stroll through the store, I can see the agents waiting outside. You can always count on men acting like men. They don’t want to be perceived as perverts trying to get their jollies, regardless of what their mission is.
I select a couple of tastefully slinky items and head for the dressing room. I took a risk walking around with my disposable cell, but it had to be done. I have to talk to Boston.
I power the phone up as soon as I enter the dressing room and hang my items on the hook as it rings. Thank God he has it on. We may have these to communicate, but we neglected to set a schedule for when to have our phones on.
“Jesus, I’ve been worried sick about you. Are you okay? Where have you been?”
“Hi, honey. I’m sorry. Things have been a little hectic. I had the FBI over to redecorate the house last night.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Bad enough where they paid me a second visit just before midnight and provided me a permanent security detail I don’t have to pay for,” I explain. “At least I don’t need to worry about getting mugged.”
“Did you ditch them to make this call?”
“I’m at Vicky’s trying on nighties.”
“There’s something to look forward to when this is over.” I can almost hear him smiling through the phone.
“Yeah, well you’ll never see them on me unless you get out of this mess. Please tell me these dreams of yours are getting you somewhere.”
“They are. I know who the mole is.”
My heart skips. He’s been looking for years. Now he has the answer?
“Who?” I croak, havi
ng been caught off guard.
“Colby.”
“Colby Washington? Your director?”
“I know. I’m as shocked as you are. I mean, we knew it was someone close to me, but I would never have guessed that. He was the one who hired me in the first place and allowed me to conduct my own investigation.”
Boston’s director being involved doesn’t make any sense to me. I think most people would agree his actions are suspicious, but that doesn’t mean he’s a traitor. I don’t understand how Boston could conclude it is him, but I have to trust his instincts. Or in this instance, trust his dreams.
“How did you it figure out?”
“I saw him in a memory placing explosives on a car. Then I saw one of Garrett Turner’s memories. I put the two together and got my answer.”
“Garrett’s dead, Boston,” I inform him, not sure of how much he knows and doesn’t know at this point.
“I know. I relived the last moments of his life. He was on the phone with Colby. That bastard arranged the whole thing.”
“How did you see one of his memories if he’s dead? I thought you were hacking people’s minds.” Now I’m confused.
“I don’t know. Tara is trying to figure that out. It looks like she was wrong about how I’m able to do this.”
“Shocker.” The blonde twit being wrong is the highlight of the day so far. Maybe Boston will finally figure out he doesn’t need her after all.
“How I’m able to do it isn’t important right now. I know what I saw.”
“So what are you going to do?” I whisper as I hear someone enter the dressing room area.
My heart starts beating away in my chest as I strain to listen. Could the FBI agents have been crazy enough to follow me in here after all? Have I been out of their sight for too long? I hear the clatter of hangers and then footsteps move back out of the dressing room area and into the store.
“I’m going to confront him,” Boston tells me.
“Honey, that’s not a good idea.”
“So I’ve been told,” he mumbles. I assume Louisiana had the same response. Maybe Tara did, too. I hate the idea of agreeing with either of them.
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