by James Hunt
“He’s not going to have a choice,” Sam answered, her eyes peeled for anyone in an FBI uniform. “Despite the FBI’s involvement, this is still a US Marshal case so long as a family member is missing.” She turned toward the building’s east exit, away from the maddening crowd of reporters. “C’mon. We’ll take my car.”
Out in the lot, there were still a few news vans parked outside the second exit, and when the gate opened to let Sam and Grant outside, Sam hit the gas before the cameras could swarm. She glanced in the rear-view mirror, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen media coverage like this.”
“I have.” Grant kept his head tilted away from Sam, staring at the buildings as they passed.
“I bet it’s like déjà vu for you, huh?”
Grant rubbed his eyes, the break in action reminding his body of the sleep deprivation that it had been through over the past twenty-four hours. He was running on empty. “Mocks keeps telling me I’m stuck in neutral. I’m starting to think she’s right.”
Sam didn’t respond at first, her silence replaced with the noise of traffic.
“I’m sorry about what I said,” Grant said. “In the forest. I was out of line.”
“Yeah,” Sam replied, exhaling. “I think we both were.” She glanced at him. “You did save my life though, so I’d say we’re even.”
“So that’s all it takes?” Grant asked. “Good to know.”
The tension between them eased, and both relaxed their posture. It had been a long time since Grant was able to feel that way with anyone. He usually only let his guard down with Mocks, but it began to slip away with Sam.
“I should have seen it coming,” Sam said, shaking her head. “I trained with the FBI to be a sniper before I joined the Marshals.”
“Really?” The news was surprising, but Grant was intrigued. “Any good?”
“I’ve been shooting since I was little. I used to go hunting with my dad. He’s the reason why I was any good.”
“So what happened?”
Sam’s fond, nostalgic expression slackened, and she shook her head as if she were trying to convince herself to drop it. But she couldn’t.
“My training officer was handsy.” Sam swallowed and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “When I reported it I was told to rethink my statement. That it could affect my tenure with the FBI. So I dropped out. Joined the Marshals.” She wiped her nose and looked away from Grant, taking a moment to gather herself.
“What was his name?” Grant asked. “The training officer?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. I thought about trying reopen it once I had a job here, but he’d already retired by then and it wasn’t worth the hassle.” Sam leaned her elbow on the center console, inching closer to Grant. “Sometimes you just have to let it go.”
The warmth from Sam’s arm radiated against Grant even though their shirts had barely touched. He had the sudden urge to find the man and hurt him.
“Besides, I don’t think I could live with myself if I had become a sniper. It’s nothing but killing. And that wears on a person. As a Marshal it’s all about protection.” Sam nodded. “I like that.”
And while the conversation ended, Sam remained close to Grant the rest of the drive. If Grant had it his way, they would have just kept on going straight past the hospital.
Sam parked in the back of the hospital’s lot, unable to find any spaces near the front and unwilling to park in the emergency lane, refusing to take up space to save on a little “walking” time.
The emergency room doors whooshed open, and the pair stepped over to the receptionist station, and Sam flashed her badge. “I’m Marshal Cohen. I’m here to see Mary Copella.”
“Yes, Marshal, if I could have you sign in for me, thank you.” The woman rose from her chair, reached over the desk, and pointed down the hall. “Room one twenty-nine. There is an officer by her door, but if you identify yourself, they’ll let you in. Would you like me to send the doctor in to help with any of the medical questions?”
“I’ll track them down later,” Sam answered. “Thank you.”
Grant nodded in thanks as well and stepped into stride with Sam down the hall.
“I’ll handle the questioning,” Sam said. “Feel free to chime in if you have anything of note.”
Sam flashed the badge to the two officers at Mary’s door, and they stepped aside. The moment Sam entered, Mary Copella jumped from the bed and flung her arms around Sam’s neck.
“Oh, God, Sam.” Mary buried her mouth into Sam’s shoulder, and she squeezed tightly, but the embrace was short. She pulled back, her expression of relief quickly transforming to worry. “Is Anna all right? I tried asking questions on the way over, but no one knew anything. I can’t just sit here—”
“Anna is safe. She’s alive. She’s okay.”
Mary covered her mouth, and a few silent tears fell as she collapsed back onto the edge of the bed. She lowered her head, and then heavy, rolling sobs escaped the cracks between her fingers. Sam joined her on the bed, and Mary removed her hand, exposing a pair of writhing, distorted lips, and squeezed Sam’s forearm.
Grant remained off to the side, and it wasn’t until Mary had finally calmed down that she recognized him.
“Oh my god, Chase?” Mary asked.
“Hello, Mary.” Grant smiled.
Mary stood and took three stumbling steps toward him but stopped her journey halfway. “What… What are you doing here?”
“After you were attacked at the house, Anna turned up at my place. I was out of town the night it happened, but when I came home, she was hiding in my closet with Bandit.”
A half laugh, half gasp forced Mary’s shoulders into a little bounce, and then she wiped her eyes, her expression still one of surprise. After it faded, she walked toward Grant and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you.” She shut her eyes, resting her cheek on his chest. “Thank you.”
Grant caught Sam looking at him with the mother still wrapped around his arms, and he saw the shadow of a smile across her face. When Mary finally peeled back and had a minute to calm down, Sam stepped close.
“Mary, I need to ask you some questions,” Sam said.
Mary fidgeted, reclaiming her seat on the bed. “I don’t remember much from the abduction.”
“That’s okay,” Sam said. “I need to know what you remember about the abductors.” Sam reached into her pocket and removed a recorder then clicked the play button. “Whenever you’re ready.”
With the one hand that still had all her fingers on it, she twisted her hospital sheets, and then her eyes fell to the bloody stump of her left hand, which only had the pinky and index finger left. She swallowed, her gaze still locked on the stump as she spoke. “When they put us in the back of a van, they gagged me and then put a black bag over my head. I think they did the same to Chuck, but I’m— I’m not sure.”
“It’s okay, Mary,” Sam said. “Keep going.”
Mary nodded and then cleared her throat while the machines in the room beeped in a steady cadence. “The van didn’t stop moving until they pulled me out of it, and then I heard it drive away. From there, we walked a long time, and the people around me were talking a lot, but it was always in another language. I was exhausted by the time we got to the house, and it wasn’t until I was in a room that they took the bag off my head. They chained me to a chair but kept the gag in my mouth. Then they started asking me questions.”
“What did they ask you?” Sam kept her tone neutral. It was a good technique with victims that had recently experienced a lot of trauma. The most important aspect of questioning someone in Mary’s predicament was to always keep them talking. Not everything they said might be noteworthy, but that steady stream of words could sometimes mine a piece of information buried deep in their memory.
Mary shut her eyes. “Um, they asked me what I knew about Chuck’s accounts. Stuff like that.”
“What did you tell them?” Sam asked.
“I told them that I di
dn’t know anything.” Mary’s eyes widened, and she shifted her gaze between Sam and Grant. “Chuck never told me about any of that stuff. He said he didn’t want me to know, said it was dangerous for me to know.” She looked at Sam, her eyes pleading. “He never told me even during the trial. Sam, you know I didn’t know anything.” She scrunched her face in preparation for tears, but Sam placed her hand on her shoulder.
“I know you didn’t.” Sam squeezed Mary’s arm. “Keep going. You’re doing great. What else did they ask you?”
A few tears leaked from Mary’s eyes, but the release provided enough grit for her to continue. “They asked a lot of personal questions about Chuck. Who he was as a child, what he liked to eat, his hobbies.” Her mouth grew distorted, and a moan escaped before she could stop it. “What he enjoyed in bed.” She lowered her head and sobbed.
Sam looked at Grant in the corner. For the first time since Mary started talking, she wore an expression of doubt. He knew how hard it was to push someone in Mary’s position. Every question was another stab to the heart to an individual that had already experienced so much pain. But if his past had taught Grant anything, it was that pain was temporary. Grant nodded for her to keep going.
Sam touched Mary’s shoulder. “It’s almost done. Just a few more questions, okay?”
Mary nodded, wiping her face of tears and snot.
“Did you answer their questions? Did you tell them the truth about what you did know?”
“Yes,” Mary answered, her right hand involuntarily reaching for the bloody stump that was her left. “If I didn’t answer, they’d hit me or try and drown me.” The tears suddenly dried up as she removed her hold on the bloody stump. “But sometimes they’d do it anyway.” She turned to Sam, reaching for the marshal’s arm. “Sam, please, let me go and see my daughter. Let me see Anna.” She tightened her grip. “Please, I can’t— I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to see my daughter. Let me see her, please.”
Sam clicked the recorder off and then slid it into her pocket, nodding as she grabbed hold of Mary’s hand. “Of course. As soon as the doctors tell us you’re okay to leave, we’ll take you to her. Okay?”
“Promise?” Mary asked, her tone like that of a hopeful child.
Sam hesitated, knowing the trap of the words that came next. Promises in law enforcement were double-edged swords. It provided you what you wanted in the short term but burned you in the long term. Sam had already been burned once. She wasn’t apt to do it again.
“You’ll see your daughter soon,” Sam answered, gently removing Mary’s arm.
And as if the conversation had drained the last of her energy, Mary sank backward into her pillow, her eyes closed, and her body lay still as Grant and Sam stepped out of the room and into the hall, moving away from the officers to speak in private.
Sam retreated to the wall and leaned back. “If they were cutting off her fingers to get what they wanted, what the hell do you think they were doing to Chuck to get information out of him?”
“You mean besides sending him the fingers of his wife?” Grant asked. “Probably nothing comfortable.”
Sam hunched forward, resting her hands just above her knees, and exhaled. “I don’t know how much longer he’s going to last with these people.”
“The money hasn’t moved, right?” Grant asked. “That still gives us a chance to find him alive.”
“Yeah,” Sam replied, straightening out. “Maybe.”
The pair of loafers that Mocks had started her day wearing had already been kicked off and were lying beneath her desk. Her feet had swelled early today, and she propped them up on the little stool to the side of her desk, unashamedly flashing her bare feet through the windows of the office.
Mocks had her hand in another freshly opened Pop-Tart box when Lane stepped into the office. “What do you need?”
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Lane answered, staring at Mocks’s bare feet a second too long before setting a file of paperwork on her desk. “I just got back and checked on those reports that Grant requested on the house where the girl was taken, and—”
“Eyes up here, Lane,” Mocks said, pulling Lane’s vision off her feet.
“Yes, ma’am.” Lane shook his head and retreated toward the door, but Mocks stopped him before he stepped out.
“Lane, hold on.” Mocks wiggled forward in her chair. “Shut that door for a minute. Sit down.” The officer did as he was told, and she kept quiet for a minute. Making the kid sweat had become one of her favorite pastimes. Though she tried not to do it very often. She didn’t want to break him beyond repair. “Grant told me you did good work on the drive.”
Almost instantly, Lane relaxed a little. “That was kind of him to say.”
“Listen, I haven’t gotten approval for this, but we’re looking to expand one of the detective units in our budget next year. You still interested in moving up?”
Lane straightened in his chair. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m not promising anything, but you do well on your detective exam next month, and I’d be foolish to not consider you.” Mocks leaned back in her chair and placed her hands on her stomach. “But keep that between us.”
Lane stood then nodded and thanked Mocks profusely on his exit, leaving the door open as he walked back to his desk, giving himself a small fist pump that Mocks was assuming he thought no one saw.
The truth was there were already three separate detective units asking about Lane, and provided he didn’t royally flunk the detectives’ exam, next year he would have a promotion. But she wanted to keep the kid hungry. To some, that might sound like extortion, but for her, it was just helping the kid stay on the straight and narrow. And the last thing she needed was Lane growing a big head.
Mocks reached for the report from the utilities company that Grant requested on the house up north. The power had been turned on a week ago, but the account was registered to a bogus LLC company. She saw that Lane had tried to request the tax information, but she knew that it would take too long to get anything from the state. But he also included an appendix on the back of the report that listed other locations where the fake LLC had opened accounts.
“LANE!” Mocks scanned the pages and then opened the top drawer of her desk that held all of her most pressing cases, which included information on Copella’s.
Lane jogged into the office, slightly out of breath. “Something wrong, Lieutenant?”
Mocks held up the papers. “What the hell is this?” She flashed the pages he added to the back.
“Oh, well, when I got the name of the LLC that turned on the account at the house where the little girl was taken, I checked to see if they had any other utilities opened.” Lane gave a good-natured smile but faded as Mocks continued her scan of the papers.
“None of these are in Washington,” Mocks said.
“Correct, but I checked all fifty states and found that company had three other locations registered.”
“Son of a bitch!” Mocks slapped the papers down, laughing as she rocked herself out of the chair, and donned her slippers. She snatched up the papers and then waddled past Lane. “C’mon. We need to get this to Grant.”
10
Links sat still in the chair in his office. He had stared at the same fixed spot on his desk for the past ten minutes. The tight ball of lies that he had woven was becoming unraveled. And the more those thoughts plagued his mind, the less he was able to control his anger.
He popped up from his chair like a jack-in-the-box and paced the open patch of carpet in front of his desk. The door was closed, blocking out the angered muttering of a madman losing his grip. If they had been able to find the mother, then it wouldn’t be much longer until they found the father, and Charles Copella still hadn’t cracked. Which meant that he didn’t have the money, which meant that he didn’t have any offering to Joza.
Links stopped the pacing halfway back to his desk when his eyes caught the nameplate on his desk. It read Nathan Links in gold letters, and b
elow that FBI Director.
The halogen of the lights in his office made the gold on the plaque shine, and suddenly all of the memories from the years it had taken to get to this point flooded back to him. All of the sacrifices he made, the time and effort he poured into this bureau, and his thankless efforts of keeping the American people safe from harm. All for naught.
Links lunged for the nameplate and then snapped it in half, throwing the pieces against the wall just as there was a knock at the door. He whirled at the intrusion, his face red and the veins along his neck throbbing. “What!”
The door cracked open, and Beth, his secretary, poked her head through the crack, leaving her body outside the office. She was a mouse of a woman, plain looking, but she did her work well, and most importantly she never questioned Links.
“I’m sorry, Director, but I have a few notifications for you.” Still keeping her body outside of the office, she stuck her arm inside, her fingers clasping the few notes of paper.
Links walked to her, retaking control of his breathing, and snatched the notes out of Beth’s hand. He sifted through them quickly and then noticed Beth’s lingering presence in his peripheral. He looked at her and saw that she was staring at the broken nameplate on the carpet.
“Is there anything else?” Links asked.
“No, sir.” Beth bowed her head, quickly retreating from the door, closing it as she left.
Links briefly glanced back at the nameplate but then returned to the notes. Most of them were standard messages, check-ins from the Intelligence Committee in the Senate, but as he reached the last note in the stack, he froze.
The paper slowly trembled with the shake of his hand, and he walked to his chair, taking a seat, slowly, carefully. The note was from the archive office that handled the FBI’s records. Links had left instructions with the office upon his promotion to Director to be notified if anyone tried accessing files older than three years. And one had been accessed less than one hour ago. The file belonged to Matt Kover.
