Kill Switch

by Gordon Bonnet

  “I wish I’d been home last night, and not missed your calls. But it all turned out for the best. I’m still alive, I was out with friends.”

  How did she know he called more than once?

  But she was still talking. “It’s such a shock, I’m not even thinking straight. Finding out that all of our friends are gone, like that. And there’s nothing more to explain it? To explain why someone is targeting us?”

  “Not that I know of.” Chris modulated his voice with an effort. “But I know it must be a shock. Especially finding out about Lewis. You two were pretty close, for a while. I thought at the time that you two were headed toward getting married.”

  “I know. I can’t believe someone killed him. It doesn’t seem possible.”

  And Chris said, through a throat that closed down around his very words, “Who is this?”

  “What?” The voice still sounded light, friendly.

  “Elisa and Lewis never dated,” Chris said, and a shudder twanged its way up his backbone. “I don’t even think they liked each other much. Who is this? And where is Elisa Howard?”

  And the phone went dead in his hand.

  —

  “Let’s assume you’ve already given me the lecture about how I should have told you about finding out Elisa’s address and phone number immediately, and move forward from there.”

  Chris was still sitting in his rocking chair, but fully clothed now. Hargis and Drolezki were sitting on the couch in his living room.

  “You don’t seem to understand the gravity of this situation—”

  “No, I think I understand it just fine. I thought it was more important to warn Elisa than it was to tell you people where she was.”

  “We could have had someone at her house within an hour of finding out her address,” Drolezki said. “And we told you to call us at any time, day or night. You need to cooperate, Mr. Franzia.”

  “But what about Elisa? What are you going to do now?”

  “We’ve already contacted our office in central Minnesota. They’re going to send a couple of agents right out. They might be there already.”

  “Why don’t you tell me exactly what the woman on the phone said,” Hargis said.

  “It was all vague. You know, not suspicious, at least not at first, just the generalities that you’d expect from someone you haven’t seen in thirty years. How are you, I’m fine, that sort of thing.”

  “What did she ask you?”

  “Well, I told her why I’d called. To warn her, because the others had died. She wanted to know about that, of course. How they’d all been killed.”

  “And you told her?”

  “I summarized, but yes.”

  Hargis flashed a glance at Drolezki. “So now they’re aware that we’ve pieced the whole thing together.”

  Drolezki gave a little shrug. “It probably doesn’t matter. The fact that we’re here means they almost certainly knew that much already.”

  “And the woman who claimed to be Elisa Howard,” Hargis continued. “What else did she ask about?”

  “She wanted to know how I found her. I mentioned her roommate, Peggy, the person that gave me her address. But they must have known that much, too, because when I talked to Peggy she said she’d been contacted by someone earlier in the week asking for Elisa’s address.”

  “Did she give it to them?”

  “I’d assume so. She gave it to me readily enough, and asked me if there was some kind of reunion going on. She seemed to think it was completely innocent. If she didn’t—”

  “And you didn’t tell her what was happening.”

  Chris rolled his eyes. “Credit me with some intelligence, here. Why would I tell Peggy?”

  “You haven’t been acting very wisely thus far, Mr. Franzia,” Hargis said. “But I hope that this will convince you that this is deadly serious.”

  “Adam’s death was enough to do that. And I do take this seriously. I thought I was doing the right thing. But if they’ve gotten into her voicemail, she must be dead, right? They called me on her line. I checked my call history after I hung up. It was the same number. They must be in her house. They got her, too.”

  “It’s possible,” Hargis admitted. “They may have been trying to lure you to come to Minnesota. Or to give away what your plans were.”

  “I don’t have any plans.”

  “They don’t know that. And you caught on that it wasn’t Elisa before they could reveal what exactly they were after, I think. That was clever of you.”

  “Something struck me wrong.” Chris shrugged. “I think it struck me wrong from the beginning, but I was tired, and I was so happy to talk to her, to find out she was alive. But her voice sounded… not different, exactly, but like a good imitation. Someone who knows what she sounds like, but can’t quite get the feeling right. Elisa isn’t a superficial person, and that’s what the conversation was, right from the beginning. And then, she let slip that she knew I’d called more than once, which she should have had no way of knowing.”

  “Some voicemail systems will tell you that,” Drolezki interjected.

  “Oh. Well, even so. It jumped out at me. And then I asked her about how upset she must be about Lewis’s death, since they were so close. I was waiting for her to laugh, and say, ‘Lewis? Lewis and I couldn’t stand each other,’ or something like that, and she went along with it. That’s when I knew it couldn’t be her.”

  “It’s good you caught on when you did,” Hargis said.

  “But what do you think they wanted from me?”

  “We can only speculate. As I said, it could be that she was hoping to get you to come to Minnesota, be the Knight in Shining Armor. Or, perhaps, she simply wanted to continue asking questions, reveal if you knew what the connection was between you, Ms. Howard, and the other five. You still have no further thoughts about that, do you?”

  “No. None.”

  “I see. And your impromptu nocturnal research didn’t turn up anything else you’re not telling us, did it?”

  Chris scowled at him. “Not unless you count my looking up pictures of all of my dead friends online.”

  “You found them all?”

  “Photographs of everyone but Elisa, and I found her art gallery website once I knew her home town and married name. I even looked myself up. It’s no wonder they found me so easily. We’re all hiding in plain sight.”

  “One of the effects of the internet,” Drolezki said. “No such thing as privacy any more.”

  “When you know more, will you…” Chris looked down. “I know you can’t tell me anything, never mind.”

  “It wasn’t Lewis Corelli who was interested in Elisa Howard, was it?” Drolezki said.

  Chris looked up. “No,” he admitted. “We were close. If circumstances had been different, we might have had something. But they weren’t, and it’s thirty years later, and I don’t even know if she’s alive or dead.”

  “Mr. Franzia,” Hargis said, “when we know anything more about Ms. Howard’s well-being—or, I should say, Mrs. Reed’s—we’ll let you know. I will personally contact you when we have further information, and tell you whatever I can, as long as it will not compromise this investigation.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

  Hargis and Drolezki stood, Hargis brushing the dog hair off his pants.

  “Sorry,” Chris said. “Baxter sheds this time of year.”

  Hearing his name, Baxter looked up from his dog bed, where he’d been cuddled up with a plush toy monkey. He wagged twice, then put his chin back down and his eyelids drooped closed.

  “Occupational hazard,” Hargis said.

  “And he’s a good old boy,” Drolezki said. “Not so much of a watchdog, but a good old boy.”

  Baxter wagged one more time without opening his eyes.

  “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Franzia,” Hargis said.

  —

  Chris wasn’t expecting a call from them any time soon, so it was a surprise when he was awake
ned from an afternoon nap by his cell ringing. Hargis was on the other end of the line.

  “Mr. Franzia, I’m calling about what we discussed this morning,”

  Chris frowned. “Mr. Hargis, what toy was my dog sleeping with this morning when you were here?”

  There was a slight pause. “It was a stuffed monkey. Brown and white.”

  Chris let out a long breath.

  “You’re learning,” Hargis said. “My compliments.”

  “I try not to make the same mistake twice.”

  “Yes. That’s crucial.” There was the rustle of paper from the other end of the line. “Agents were dispatched to Mrs. Reed’s residence in Minnesota this morning. Her house was locked, and no one answered the door. A neighbor had been charged with taking care of her house plants and had a key. She let them in, but there was no one there, and the neighbor said she hadn’t heard from Mrs. Reed since her departure, and that she didn’t know where she’d gone, only that it was a ‘family emergency.’” More pages rustling. “Her art gallery… Orion Gallery…”

  “Orion’s Belt.”

  “Yes. It was locked and dark, with a sign in the window saying that the gallery was closed for two weeks and would open again on Monday, July 8.”

  “That was yesterday.”

  “Yes.” Hargis cleared his throat. “In your conversation with Mrs. Reed’s former roommate, and your online research, did you come up with any further thoughts about where she might have gone?”

  “No. I have no idea.”

  “And you don’t know anything about her family that might be relevant?”

  “I know she had two stepbrothers, both younger. Jay and Dennis. Her mother had remarried, so the last name would have been different. They lived out in eastern Washington somewhere. That’s honestly all I know.”

  “I see. If you do find out more, or remember more…”

  “Yes. I know. I’ll call you.”

  “Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

  Chris ended the call.

  He sat there for a moment, and then got up and went to his computer. He did a Google search for Orion’s Belt Art Gallery, St. Cloud, Minnesota. Seconds later he had the website in front of him that he’d been perusing the night before. On the home page were some images of Elisa’s art work. Mostly they had mythological feel, and included a stylized raven against a backdrop of stars, a feathered lizard that had a Mayan look, and a stark painting of a Native American man with tattoos of spider’s legs on his face, sending showers of silver sparks from his upturned hands into the night sky. There was no photograph of her, he noted, but there was the little box in the corner that said, “Contact Us.”

  He clicked on the link, and then on the email address that popped up. In the text box he wrote,

  Elisa,

  Wherever you are. Don’t go home. Stay away from St. Cloud. And don’t tell anyone where you are. It’s important. Whatever you do, if you answer this email, don’t mention where you are.

  Your old friend,

  Chris Franzia

  He clicked send.

  Chapter 5

  It was just after dinner—a steak and some fresh broccoli bought that day at the Save-a-Lot—that Chris heard the familiar ping from his computer signaling a new email.

  He got up, leaving part of his steak still uneaten on the plate. Baxter, who’d been watching him intently throughout dinner, responded with an enthusiastic woof and a furiously wagging tail, evidence that he had complete understanding of the concept of leftovers.

  “Don’t get your hopes up, buddy.” He waved the dog away and walked into the living room to his computer. “I’m not done with that yet.”

  He clicked the mouse to reactivate the monitor out of sleep mode, and saw a little message in the corner of the screen: You have (1) new email.

  He opened his email browser. It was from ereed@orionsbelt.com.

  Chris,

  That was cryptic and scary, and I need to know if this is a prank. If it is, it’s in very poor taste, but if it really is my old college friend, I can’t imagine your finding it funny to freak me out for no reason. I almost didn’t respond, but I have to know. Please tell me what this is about.

  Elisa

  Chris clicked Reply, sat staring at the blank page for several minutes, and finally began to type.

  Elisa,

  It’s not a prank. I wish like hell I could tell you it was. I don’t think emails are easy to track, which is the only reason I’m taking the chance of writing to you. I hope I’m right about that.

  Remember all of the people we hung out with in Field Bio? Glen, Gavin, Deirdre, Mary, and Lewis? I hate to say it this bluntly, but I can’t think of any way to be subtle about it—all five them have died, one after the other, in the last month, under what the police like to call “mysterious circumstances.” You and I are the only ones left. The FBI is involved, and they think it has something to do with our field work back in 1984. I can’t imagine how that can be relevant, but it seems to be the only commonality between us.

  I’m relieved beyond words that you’re okay. I am, too, for now, but whoever is doing this has already tried to kill me once, and a neighbor of mine died because of it. I think I’m not running around in circles screaming hysterically only because on some level I still can’t really believe this is happening.

  I won’t ask where you are. If you’re away from home, somewhere that people don’t know you, you’re safer. If you’re in a place like that, then stay put, and don’t trust anyone you don’t know.

  I hesitate to suggest this, but do you want me to give your email to the FBI men who are here? They gave me hell today because I tried to call you and left a message on your voicemail. I know they’d say that they want to contact you, for your own protection.

  Take care and be safe.

  Chris

  He sat there thinking, as the computer made the whooshing noise that signified his email was off to its destination. Should he have told her about the impostor who had called him? After consideration, he came to the conclusion that it was probably better that he didn’t. She was already freaked out enough. That wouldn’t be improved by the knowledge that there was someone in her hometown, possibly even in her house itself, intercepting her voicemail and calling people back pretending to be her.

  He wasn’t sure how long she’d take to respond. They’d known each other long before the time of email, so it was hard to know if she’d be the respond-instantly type, or the think-about-it-and-answer-later type. But he didn’t have long to ponder the question, because five minutes afterwards her reply popped up on his screen.

  Jesus. This is terrifying. I keep thinking, “Come on, this can’t be true,” but I looked up Gavin online and found his obituary. I think I read it four times before it finally sunk in. I’d look up the others, too, but I know what I’d find. One was enough to convince me.

  I have often thought over the years that it would be awesome to get back in touch with you and some of the others, but I never dreamed that it would be in circumstances like these.

  About the FBI… I don’t know. Are you sure they’re trustworthy? I mean, it sounds ridiculous, but you told me not to trust anyone. Are you sure they’re for real?

  I’m somewhere safe, and can stay here indefinitely, so don’t worry about me. I’m really scared for you, however. Is there any way you can get away without anyone knowing?

  Chris read her response in silence before responding.

  Your question about the FBI is a good one, and I thought of the same thing. They had IDs, but how hard would that be to fake? They haven’t given me any indication that they’re not for real, though. So all I can say is that I’m trusting them for now.

  I don’t know how I could get away without them knowing. I get the feeling they’re watching my house continuously, which is reassuring in one way and terrifying in another. And I don’t really have anywhere I could go that I wouldn’t be immediately findable. For example, I could go stay with my br
other in San Diego for a while, sure, but I don’t want to put him and his family at risk. If whoever is doing this found the others, they could figure out who I’m likely to run to just by hacking my Facebook.

  And running off to the wilderness isn’t much better. That’s how they got Deirdre. Plus, I already tried that, and it got my neighbor killed. So I think I’m stuck here for now.

  Her response, shorter this time, came back much more quickly this.

  How did they all die? I know that sounds morbid, but I want to know.

  He wrote back:

  Gavin and Lewis were apparently poisoned, but it was with something that wasn’t detected in an autopsy, so it looked like natural causes. Same thing happened to my neighbor, Adam. It would have happened to me if I’d drunk a beer from my fridge that had been tampered with, but Adam got it before I did. Mary went off a bridge in Oregon, and the police thought it was suicide, especially given her temperament, but they now think she was pushed or thrown. Glen got hit by a car while riding his bike. Deirdre drowned in a lake while on a hiking trip in the Olympics.

  The only way the FBI put all of this together was that Gavin sent Glen an email saying that there was something up, something dangerous, and he mentioned all of us by name. Just us seven. Glen’s wife found the email when she was cleaning stuff up after Glen died, and reported it to the police. Unfortunately, Gavin wasn’t specific about what was going on—only vague hints.

  Her response, again, was immediate.