The Eyes of Others

by Mikael Carlson

  “Tony, the house belonged to a senior member of the Defense Intelligence Agency. Have authorities mentioned anything about this being related to the intelligence leaks purportedly from that organization over the past weeks?”

  “Officials have been tight-lipped about that. There has been no confirmation that this is in any way related to the leaks that led to the beheadings of two captured Americans or the suicide bomber that assassinated the son of the vice-president who was in Baghdad as part of a State Department diplomatic mission. Those questions will have to be answered as this investigation progresses.”

  The phone on the cushion vibrates as the news anchor prattles on about the next story du jour. I reach for it and answer it, saying nothing. I get up and walk down the hall to the bathroom and turn the shower on. Hopefully it disrupts the reception of any directional mic they might be using from the street or bug they planted in here when they were searching the house. At least, that’s how it worked in some movie I saw.

  “Boston?” I whisper into the phone.

  “Yeah, it’s me, baby. Where are you?”

  “The bathroom. The FBI is right outside the house. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Colby’s dead.”

  “I know, it’s all over the news. Did you …”

  “No, the FBI killed him. At least that’s what they told me,” he tries to explain.

  “What? I mean―”

  “It’s a really long story. Colby wasn’t the mole,” he confesses. “I’m fresh out of suspects.”

  I’m astonished. He was so sure, and he almost had me convinced, too. Maybe these dreams aren’t as reliable as he thought they were. I would hate to think he’s ruined both of our lives for nothing.

  “What now? The feds are going to be all over you. You can’t run forever.”

  “Hopefully won’t have to. Tara’s convinced these memories are triggered by trauma and stress. Hopefully, after what happened today, I will see things very clearly.”

  I feel a surge of jealousy at the mention of Tara. I don’t like the woman, don’t trust her, and like the fact that Boston is spending time with her even less. I’ve about reached my limit.

  “Like she’s been right about so many things!” I snap. “Boston, I’ve been fired from my job. I have the damn FBI parked outside the house. They’re following me everywhere! We have to end this!”

  “I know you’re upset, honey. Once we find out who’s behind the leaks, everything will be okay.”

  “Will it? I mean, what’s it really going to solve?”

  “Honey, please don’t―”

  “All I want to do is run off and put this behind us. Go to the mountains for some Merlot just like we used to do.

  “And we will,” he promises. Now I need him to make another.

  “Promise me everything will be okay. I’m trying to hold it together, but I just can’t live like this. I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Please stay strong, Gina. One more night.”

  “Can you promise me that?”

  “Yes. I promise.”

  Despite the fan in the ceiling whirring away, the bathroom is filling with steam. If the FBI is listening in, I can’t keep up the charade any longer. As much as I don’t want to, I have to end this call.

  “Okay, I need to go. I love you,” he whispers into the phone.

  “I love you, too. Sleep well, sweetie.”

  “I’m going to try. Bye.”

  I hang up with him. It’s ending tonight. The long story will finally have the ending it deserves, one way or another.

  I go into the bedroom and put the phone back in the hollow panel of the floorboards. The FBI didn’t find it during their search, much to my pleasant surprise. The space is small, only one floorboard in width requiring only one piece to be removed. There’s little space in the seams and you really have to be looking for it to find it. I replace the phone and retrieve the other.

  Boston is going to get caught. If he uncovers the mole tonight, it’ll be the only thing that saves him. Once he’s in FBI custody, even the dream identifying the person passing information to ISIS won’t be enough to persuade anyone that he’s not the leak. Even if he did, he still will have to answer for what Louisiana did outside Tara’s and what he did at Colby’s. The police will throw the book at him.

  It’s time to start preparing for bad eventualities. Everything is going to end within the next day, and I have to be ready. I power on the second phone. It won’t do to use the house line. I move back to the bathroom and dial the number. It’s time to throw myself a lifeline.

  .

  ~ chapter 66 ~

  Boston “eugene” hollinger

  The image is foggier than usual. The room is small, cramped. A cacophony of steady noise fills the air. The whir of a fan and the sound of … water.

  “Please stay strong, Gina. One more night.” I know that voice. It sounds like mine. My real one.

  “Can you promise me that?”

  “Yes. I promise.”

  The room is getting foggier. It’s almost hard to breathe. Where am I?

  “Okay, I need to go. I love you,” he whispers into the phone.

  “I love you, too. Sleep well, sweetie.” Did I just hear that?

  “I’m going to try. Bye.”

  I feel the person leave the room and go into another. The scene is much less foggy now. Everything is clear. I move to a closet and slide a box. A hand reaches down and opens a hole in the floor, places device into it, and takes another. The nails are manicured. A woman’s hand …

  “Yes?” a voice says after I move back into the foggy room and dial a number. A man’s voice … with an accent.

  “I hope the last information I passed you at Union Station was acceptable.”

  “Yes, it will help immensely. Will you ever be in a position to give us more?”

  “No. I think you’ve seen the last of me.”

  “That is unfortunate.” I can hear the regret in his voice. “What will you do now?”

  “I need to leave the country. I must request your help.”

  “Are you at risk of capture?”

  “I don’t know. My original plan has been spoiled. Now I’m looking for a way out. I need travel documents and money.”

  “I can help with both, but it will take time.”

  “How much time?”

  “Only Allah can answer such questions for sure. A few days. Maybe a week. Can you wait that long?”

  “Not here, but I have a place I can go wait far enough away to avoid detection. They have a great Merlot there,” my voice says with a laugh.

  “Excellent. I will do what I can. Phone me when you arrive there.”

  My eyes click open and I shoot straight out of the bed and stand in the middle of the floor. I can’t catch my breath. I inhale deeper and deeper and still it’s not enough.

  “Oh my God!” I try to blurt out while exhaling.

  There’s a knock at the door, but I don’t answer. I run the dream through my mind. It’s unmistakable. Unlike what Colby told me, there’s no room for interpretation. I know what I saw and heard. I know who it was, and the thought of it makes me break out into a cold sweat.

  “Boston? What is it? What’s wrong? He’s hyperventilating,” Tara decrees to Steven who rushed in right behind her. Concern is worn all over her face. She edges me back over toward the bed.

  “Sit down, Boston. Try to take normal breaths.”

  “He’s awake? How is that possible after the sedative I gave him?” Steven asks, walking over to the EEG. The sensors were pulled from my head when I jumped out of bed, so the contraption is no longer recording data.

  “Boston, it’s okay,” Tara consoles, rubbing my back while I fight to recover my wind.

  “No, it isn’t. Nothing’s okay,” I whisper to her.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I saw it. I saw everything. Unlike the other dreams, I …”

  “My God, I’ve never seen activit
y like this,” Steven says after my voice trails off, staring at the machine.

  My heart is racing. I start to regain my composure and control my breathing. Once I do, I quickly begin peeling the sensor pads off my head.

  “Boston, what are you―”

  “How long was I out?” I demand.

  “Uh, about two hours, I guess. Why?”

  “Are my clothes ready?”

  “Yeah, we just pulled them out of the dryer. I’ll get them,” Steven informs us, rushing out of the room. It sounds like he’s eager to please, but more likely just wants me gone.

  “Boston, talk to me.”

  I turn back to see her pleading eyes. What can I tell her? How do I begin to explain what I just saw? How do I convince her when I can’t even convince myself to believe it?

  “I have to go, Tara,” I say, rising from the bed as Steven walks back in holding my neatly folded clothes.

  “Why? What did you see?”

  “Something I never thought I would.”

  “Here you go,” he says offering me the pile of clothes.

  “Steven, I hate to impose on you further, but I need to borrow your car,” I explain as I pull off the sweats and put my clothes on in record time. “I’ll get it back to you, I promise.”

  He looks at Tara, searching for any signal not to agree. She’s not looking at either of us at the moment, so he receives none. I know I’m hurting her feelings, but this has to come first.

  “Okay. It’s a light gray Chevy Malibu,” he says, pulling a set of keys off the ring holding the one for his car and alarm. “It’s in the building’s parking garage in the basement. Take the elevator down to P1.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walk out of the room and down the hall, and Tara follows. I look back and see Steven following as well. She follows my eyes and stops.

  “Can you give us a minute?” she asks him.

  “Uh … sure,” he replies with a forced smile.

  “So, that’s it? After all this, you’re just going to leave and not tell me what’s happening?”

  “Tara, it’s better this way. I can’t ask you to go any further with me.”

  “Why? What did you see?” she pleads once more.

  “I saw the mole. I know who tried to have me killed.”

  “Who?” She has a right to know, but I can’t bring myself to tell her.

  “It’s not important. Thank you, for everything.”

  “Not important? Like hell it isn’t! Tell me, please. You owe me that much!” She stomps over to me and grabs my shirt as I punch the elevator button.

  “Tara, trust me, it’s better if you don’t know.”

  “So this really is it?” she concludes, the fight dissipating back to hurt again as the tears form in her eyes. I make up my mind. There’s really no reason I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do now.

  I take her face into my hands and kiss her. It’s slow, deep, and passionate, like most first kisses are. It’s something I never thought I would ever do again after getting engaged. Engaged to a woman I loved who has been lying to me this whole time.

  I hear the ding of the elevator bell and the doors open behind me. I finally pull my lips away and wipe at the tears with my fingers. As much as part of me wants to stay, I need to go. I need to finish this.

  “I have to go.”

  I step into the elevator and punch the button for P1. I watch her stare back at me, fighting the tears that refuse to be stifled. We hold each other’s gaze until the doors finally close.

  .

  ~ chapter 67 ~

  eric “maryland” williams

  Early morning television sucks, but after what’s happened over the last couple of days, I’ll take it. I’m on my second six-pack, had a pizza delivered earlier that is gone now except for the box it came in, and am sitting on my own couch. For the first time in days, I feel normal.

  The doorbell rings, ruining the moment and shattering the illusion of normalcy. Who could possibly be here at this hour? I set aside my beer and struggle to get out of my chair.

  “Who is it?” I call out.

  “FBI, Mister Williams. Open up.”

  Great, not again. Is this ever going to end? I open the door and expect to see a pair of agents flashing their badges. Instead, I see Louisiana standing there in the rain.

  “Very funny. What the hell do you want?”

  “It’s raining. I want to come in, bro.”

  “No way. You’re a wanted felon. You’re not setting one foot inside this house. Get off my front stoop.”

  I don’t want anything to do with him or Boston. Enough is enough. I start to close the door when it comes flying back and hits me in the face. I’m knocked off balance and back into the living room. Louisiana comes in and closes the door behind him.

  “I said get out!”

  “Psssh, not a chance. Not until you tell me what you said to the FBI.”

  “I’m not telling your psychopathic ass a damn thing,” I tell him, rubbing the side of my head. It’s going to swell.

  “Yeah, you really are. You’re gonna start from the beginnin’ and tell me everythin’ you told the FBI, since now I know that’s where you were. Boston needs your help and, by God, you’re gonna give it to him.”

  “I’m done helping him. Our boss is dead because of him, and he’s a fugitive because of you. You’re toxic and you poison everything you touch. Now, I said get out!” I give him a shove towards the door for good measure. I’m about to deliver him another when he retaliates with one of his own.

  “I’m not leavin’ until I get answers from you, bro. So settle down.”

  “No, you’re leaving now, one way or another,” I explain, as I pick up my cordless house phone to call the police.

  Without warning, he grabs my wrist and wrestles the phone out of my hand. Making sure no call is connected, he hurls it against the far wall. I feel the surge of anger that translates immediately into action.

  I swing and my right connects against his jaw. It barely fazes him, and I don’t see his jab until it’s too late. It’s followed by a hard right that knocks me into the coffee table and then to the floor. He hits harder than I do.

  I start to get up when he kicks me in the ribs. The force knocks the wind from my lungs, causing me to cough and gasp for air. I wait for another, but it never comes.

  “Now, where were we?” he mocks.

  I get up to my feet and launch myself at him. He’s not a small target and has no chance to dodge my bull rush. We wrestle until tripping over an ottoman and crashing to the ground. Free of each other, we both struggle to stand.

  “Okay, bro, now you’re pissin’ me off.” He fakes a left but I’m ready for the right. He likes that move. I block it and hit him in the solar plexus. He stammers back and I land a right of my own on his temple. I recock to hit him again when he stammers close to me.

  Moving quick for a guy his size, he turns his back into me, swinging his elbow into my abdomen and hooking my arm. The next thing I know, I feel myself flying through the air. I crash on something hard that must be the coffee table. Unlike the movies, the sturdy piece of furniture groans but doesn’t break.

  I slide off the edge and collapse to the floor, bringing me eye level with the beer I was drinking when he rang the bell. I pick up the bottle, once again struggle to my feet, and smash it on his head as he comes closer for another hit.

  The bottle breaks, causing him to stammer. I lunge and try to tackle him, but he keeps his balance and he puts me in a headlock. I strike at his kidneys to try to loosen his grip on my head, but there’s no force behind the blows.

  He releases the lock and I feel his knee crash into my nose, probably breaking it. Now we’ve both drawn blood. We grab at each other, each trying to gain the upper hand. We exchange hits to the head, none of them hard enough to do any real damage. Finally exhausted from the effort, we both crash to the ground and lie there for a minute. We don’t have the physical fitness we once used to.

/>   Content that the worst of it is over, we start checking our wounds. I perform the examination of my nose from the floor. Louisiana manages to pull himself up into my recliner and starts laughing. It starts off as a chuckle and begins to morph into a full belly laugh. I’m glad he finds humor in something.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  “We’ve been waitin’ to do that to each other for years.”

  As angry as I am, I can’t resist a smile. From the time he got to the unit until now, this day was inevitable. He’s absolutely right. This was long overdue. I start to laugh with him, stifling it when it causes my face to throb.

  “You broke my nose,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, well, you aren’t that pretty anyway. Besides, you practically busted my head open, bro.”

  “You weren’t using it.” We both start laughing again at the comments.

  “Boston didn’t kill Colby, ya know.”

  “I know. The FBI told me he fired on them when they barged into his house.”

  “So why do you think Boston’s responsible?”

  “The FBI never would have had a reason to go there had Boston not been on the run and decided to confront him. You were there. Was Colby the mole?”

  “I wasn’t there when he confronted him. Boston was pretty adamant that it wasn’t him,” Louisiana explains.

  I shake my head. What a waste. Colby was a manipulator and too political for my tastes, but not a bad guy. He didn’t deserve to die.

  “Then who is?” I ask.

  “Damned if I know. I don’t think he does either.”

  “Then all of this for was for nothing,” I bemoan as I get up and move to the kitchen.

  I open the freezer and put some ice in a bag and procure a couple of dishtowels from the drawer. I head back into my den and toss him one of the towels for his head as I put the ice on my nose. I don’t want him bleeding all over my furniture.

  “Thanks. What the hell is that?” he asks, noticing the strange electronic feedback noise coming from the other side of the room. I walk over and see it’s what’s left of my cordless handset.

  “Who is it?”