The Tracker

by Chad Zunker

  “To protect Lisa,” Marcus said plainly and with resolute eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Sam,” Lisa cut in again, gathering her emotions. “I wanted to come right out after this happened. I was horrified when Marcus delivered the news about Jill. But Marcus convinced me that he could still get this done, that he could still bring our version of the truth out, without ever exposing me. That he could still use you and help you to get there. He just needed a few days. I should never have agreed to it. I’m so sorry, but I wasn’t thinking straight. You may have kids one day and understand better. How you’ll do anything for them. I was so scared.”

  “You’re still alive, aren’t you, Sam?” Marcus asked me directly. Clearly not happy that Lisa was getting upset about it all.

  “Yes.” It was hard to argue with that fact. But still.

  “What about the man driving us here? William Alexander?” Natalie asked. “He’s CIA?”

  “Yes, an old associate of mine, off duty,” Marcus answered. “Simply working with me on private contract.”

  Natalie asked Marcus, “So is it safe to assume that you know who is behind the men who have been trying to kill Sam the past three days? The men who killed Rick Jackson and Ted Bowerson and Jeremy Lynch? To make sure Lucas gets elected?”

  “It’s safe to assume, yes. I likely don’t know as much as you. I’m not a journalist. And my focus has been Lisa. But I know enough.”

  “Is this in any way connected to Congressman Mitchell?” I asked Marcus.

  He shook his head. “Leonard Mitchell is a saint. A choir boy.”

  Natalie turned to Lisa. “So they still don’t know about you, Lisa?”

  “I don’t know, Natalie. I don’t think so. Marcus believes he has the trail covered. They have not yet gone looking into Jill Becker’s situation. Marcus thinks they believe she truly was in San Antonio on business, that this encounter really was random in nature and not at all orchestrated by someone else. My husband is just a cheating idiot who couldn’t keep his zipper shut and it turned from bad to much worse. So they’ve only been looking to stop the damage from that one perspective.”

  “You mean stop me.” I looked at Marcus. “How have you followed me so closely?”

  “I’m very good at what I do, son.”

  I didn’t even want to know. There was probably a GPS chip implanted somewhere inside me.

  “Do you know what they did with Jill Becker?” Natalie asked Marcus.

  “Yes. I can help locate the body.”

  This comment about a dead body brought a deep sigh out of Lisa.

  “So why expose yourself now?” Natalie asked Lisa.

  “I had to stop it, Natalie. Too much damage has already been done. I couldn’t let it continue any further. I asked Marcus to end it. Even if it meant I had to come out and come clean. So be it. I couldn’t live with myself if more innocent people were harmed. There’s been too much death already. I don’t think I'll ever be able to sleep again, may God help me.”

  I stared at Marcus. “So where is my mom?”

  “She’s safe, Sam,” Marcus assured me. “In this hotel. She’s been very well taken care of, I can promise you that.”

  “I don’t understand. Why did you have to take her?”

  “To protect her. And to protect you. I had the luxury of having months to do my homework on you. I knew all about your mother and her situation. They did not. Not yet, at least. And I wouldn’t chance them finding that piece of leverage and somehow using it against you. Or harming your mother. It may feel like I’m cold and calculating, but I promise you that I’m not. Your mother is doing well.”

  Even though I was pissed, a rush of relief washed over me at this revelation. My mom was okay.

  “Do you have the video, Sam?” Lisa asked me directly.

  I reached my hand into my pocket. Held it out.

  “Good.” Lisa nodded. “No matter what happens with me, at least he won’t get away with it. I can’t even stomach that thought.”

  “Will you go on record?” Natalie asked Lisa.

  “Marcus wants me to disappear tonight. Says he has the network to give me and the kids a brand new life with new names on the other side of the world, where they’ll never find us. But I just can’t do it. Not after all that’s happened. Not after what I put you guys through. I’ll tell you anything.”

  I turned to Marcus. “Can I go see my mother now?”

  FORTY-FIVE

  Monday, 10:31 p.m.

  Washington, DC

  1 hour, 29 minutes to Election Day

  When Marcus opened the hotel suite door, I found my mother inside wearing a thick white hotel robe over silk pajamas and sitting comfortably on the sofa in the living room watching an old movie on the large television. There was a tray of freshly sliced fruits on the coffee table with a pot of coffee and creamer, the whole nine yards. My mother looked shockingly well. Better than she’d looked in six months. I couldn’t believe it. The color was back in her cheeks. She looked ten years younger. Like she’d had a makeover or something. I knew then that Marcus was telling the truth, that they’d indeed taken very good care of my mom over the past two days.

  “Samuel!” she exclaimed, getting to her feet.

  I rushed over, hugged her tight. “It’s so good to see you, Mom.”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  “Same here. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “I’m more than okay, Samuel. This place is incredible. Your friends told me to order whatever I wanted, so I’ve been wined and dined the past two days. The best food I’ve had in years. Crab cakes, red snapper, duck breast, scallops. I think I’ve put on ten pounds in two days, I’ve never eaten so much. I’ve had people come up to the hotel suite to do a facial, even got myself a Swedish massage. Never had me one of those before. It was wonderful.”

  “That’s great.”

  She smiled wide. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Well, the man said you set this whole thing up for me.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right. You’re welcome, Mom.”

  She hugged me again. I felt my heart begin to settle for the first time in three days.

  “Is it finally over, Samuel?” she asked.

  “Almost, Mom. It’s almost over.”

  FORTY-SIX

  Monday, 11:27 p.m.

  Washington, DC

  33 minutes to Election Day

  We were in a boardroom on the 14th floor at PowerPlay’s small office headquarters, a stone’s throw from the Capitol Building. I could actually see the bright glow of the giant dome from the window. Natalie was at the table with her laptop, pecking furiously away. It was a hell of a story. A congressional candidate killing his mistress four days before Election Day? With a four point lead? The son of a sitting senator. A battered wife desperately trying to escape. And the powerful secret player behind the scenes pulling the strings on the election and sending out a team of military mercenaries to cover their tracks. It was a bomb of nuclear weight that would shake this powerful city to its very core. Especially when there was an eyewitness video attached. It was possibly the biggest breaking news story on the eve of an election in history. And I loved watching Natalie work.

  Her editor and boss, Greg Montague, a burly man with a ponytail, was skating in and out of the boardroom, barking orders, gathering research, info and photographs. Two more editors and three other young blog reporters were also scrambling about the small newsroom. It was an exciting moment for them, for Natalie. Montague had also called in the blog’s lead attorney, Judd Lambert, a man of fifty with silver hair.

  David Benoltz returned from the office kitchen with a large cup of coffee for me.

  “Thanks,” I said. I needed one more surge to get through this ordeal.

  “I just got off the phone with them. He’ll be here any minute.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “You’ll be fine, Sam. That video is your life preserver, I promise you that.”

  “I h
ope you’re right.”

  “Just tell the truth. Let me handle the rest.”

  “Whatever you say. You know I can’t pay you for any of this, right?”

  He winked at me. “I’ll take fifty percent of the book deal.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I walked over to Natalie, whose eyes were glued to the screen.

  “How’re we doing, babe?” I asked.

  “Almost there. Working as fast as I can.”

  “Well, print out what you’ve got, because I think it’s show time.”

  I peered through the interior boardroom window into the small newsroom. A group of six imposing men in trench coats had just entered from the hallway. The one in the middle was the most intimidating and made me want to piss my pants: FBI Director Luther Stone. He was short and squat with a box-shaped head, hair shaved up tight, military style, perpetual scowl. Forty years ago he won the NCAA wrestling championship for Army. The others were just his support posse. David had insisted on going straight to the top with this. We could not play around with junior level guys. We needed to speak with the big dog himself. David got him there by sending a teaser clip of the video of Lucas McCallister up the right channels.

  David Benoltz, Greg Montague and Judd Lambert met Director Stone and his FBI team inside the newsroom; they spoke for a few minutes, eyes glancing in my direction several times, and then the Director and one of his men came inside the boardroom with us. David quickly introduced me and Natalie. There was no shaking of hands. Just appropriate head nods. My heart was starting to race again. It was the Director of the FBI. Standing right in front of me. Looking at me like a lion waiting to eat its prey. How could I stay calm? I needed six weeks sitting on a quiet beach somewhere to get my heart beat back to a normal rhythm.

  “Well, let’s have it,” Stone said, turning to David. “I didn’t come down here for small talk and bad coffee.”

  David turned to Montague, who turned to Natalie.

  “Printing it out right now,” Natalie said.

  Montague snapped his fingers, another editor left the boardroom and returned ten seconds later with freshly printed papers in his hands. He handed the small stack to Stone.

  “What is this?” Stone demanded.

  Montague answered. “A draft of a story that we’ll want you to comment on. It will be going online shortly implicating Lucas McCallister in the murder of a woman named Jill Becker. And the ensuing cover up by Victor Larsen and Redrock Security using former military operatives as assassins to control an election that Larsen was determined to have McCallister win by all necessary means.”

  David chimed in. “The same night my client was wrongly implicated in the death of one Rick Jackson, which the FBI has been investigating.”

  “One of two murders, if I recall correctly,” Stone said, glaring a hole in me.

  “Yes,” David replied. “One of two incorrect implications of murder toward my client.”

  Stone looked put out at having to get his reading glasses out of his pocket. He sat down at the table, slipped them on his thick and crooked nose, squinted at the words on the pages. To his credit, he never flinched. He took a few minutes to review the story and then set the papers down on the desk in front of him.

  “Okay, so where’s the damn video?” Stone said.

  Montague picked up a black remote control, pointed it at the large flat screen TV on the far wall. The five minute and twenty-seven second video began playing. It was surreal to watch it unfold on such a large screen. And it never got any easier to watch. I could still feel the charge of adrenaline when I heard Jill’s screams, still taste the numb dryness in my mouth at the sight of so much blood, still clearly see the hollowed look in Lucas McCallister’s eyes, still recall the panic in my chest as I raced across the parking lot. It started, it played out, then it was over.

  And the air was sucked from the room.

  Stone just stared at the black TV screen for a second. Then he let out a soft whistle.

  Natalie slid over a piece of paper. “This is the location where you will find Jill Becker’s body in Texas.”

  “How do you know this?” Stone asked.

  “Sources.”

  “I’d like to have those sources.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you would,” Natalie replied. It was fun watching her measure up against one of the most powerful men in Washington. She was in her element. It was sexy.

  “So where can I find Mrs. McCallister?” Stone asked.

  “She’s waiting for you at the Hays-Adams Hotel,” Natalie answered.

  Stone turned, snapped a finger. The agent raced from the room.

  The director’s eyes shifted over to me again. He put a thick finger on the news story on the table in front of him. “This all true, son?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sounds like you’ve had a helluva few days.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m just glad it’s over now.”

  Stone chuckled. “Oh, we’re just getting started, I can promise you that.”

  Thankfully, my lawyer jumped in for me. “Director Stone, I’m sure you and your team will have a lot of questions. We’ll need to sit down in a room together over at FBI headquarters and go over every detail together in a proper way. You know, after we’re all lawyered up and whatnot. To get it all down on the official record. My client is willing to fully cooperate with you — in the right setting. After he is fully protected. So if you don’t mind, let’s save the rest for now.”

  Stone stood. “My guys will escort him over to headquarters. I never liked Victor Larsen.” He actually said that last line with a beefy grin.

  “Can I quote you on that?” Natalie asked, smiling.

  “No, Ms. Foster. My assistant will get you a proper quote.”

  Then he marched back out of the room, his men in tow.

  I huddled with David again.

  “He’s a fun guy,” I said, catching my breath.

  “Don’t worry about him. I got it covered.”

  “What's next?”

  “We need to do what he said. Head over to FBI headquarters. Do this properly.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Probably all night, I’m afraid. With the breaking news, the FBI will hold a quick follow-up news conference here shortly, where I believe they will officially drop you from the investigation and announce a new series of arrests and targets. But then we’ll need to tell your story to the world. So we need to get it right. After the past three days of your name and face being recklessly defamed across CNN and Fox News and every other news outlet in the country, we’ll need to do something serious to clear the air and get you your life back.”

  “And how do you figure we do that?”

  “I’ve already got calls in to the Today Show and Good Morning America. In about an hour, I promise that both of them will be begging for you. So you choose.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He smiled. “Nope,” he replied. “But that’s for tomorrow, Sam. First, the FBI.”

  I frowned. “Can’t wait.”

  David answered another call on his cell, patted me on the arm, took off down the hallway. I watched Natalie for a second. She looked up, gave me a quick smile, then eyes back to her laptop. She was so focused. It felt so right to be there with her. Like home. I felt safe and at peace. I no longer wanted to run. For the first time in a very long time. It felt good.

  I turned back to the window, stared at my reflection.

  I couldn’t help but see a scared ten-year-old boy staring back at me.

  I wanted to hug that kid and tell him to hang on. It’ll get better. I promise.

  SAM CALLAHAN

  Age Ten

  Denver, Colorado

  I sat alone in the back of the police car, watching the chaotic scene.

  I’d counted six other police cars on the street, red and blue lights still flashing, but the sirens had stopped a few minutes ago. Cops were everywhere. Two ambulances were in the
middle of it all. I wasn’t under arrest or anything. The cops were just protecting me. Amy was in the police car behind me. One of the female officers had collected our things from the house.

  I hoped Amy was okay. She wouldn’t even respond to the police officers. She hadn’t said a word and had barely moved. Just stared at me with hollow eyes. They had to pry her fingers out of mine, as she had been clutching my hand ever since I pulled her out of the house.

  This made me angry all over again.

  The street was lined with neighbors, all jostling for a look at the crime scene. All undoubtedly now whispering about the ten-year-old foster kid who may have actually killed one of their neighbors. Several officers in uniform kept them all at bay at a block perimeter. However, I could still see their stares at me through the police car window.

  Pointing, gawking, whispering.

  At this point, I wasn’t sure if Carl was alive or dead. No one would tell me anything. I wasn’t sure if I cared. A big part of me hoped he was dead. Monsters like him should be killed. He’d collapsed in the front yard of our neighbor, Margie, right as the first police car arrived on the scene. I’d overheard two officers talking about him being barely conscious. Medics were working on him now. There was a big huddle of them around Carl when they guided me to the back of the police car a few minutes ago. I couldn’t actually see Carl through the mass of medics. Which was fine. I never wanted to see that man again.

  I saw several of the medics lift a rolling cart into the back of the first ambulance. Then the medics shut the doors, the siren blared once, and the ambulance eased through the crowd of people, who all turned and did more gawking. The ambulance was not in a hurry. I didn’t know if this meant Carl was okay and stable, or that he was already dead and there was no reason to rush to the emergency room.

  For the first time, I spotted my foster mom, Judy, standing on the sidewalk. She looked dazed and confused. She was still in the uniform she wore at the truck stop diner. Someone had obviously called her. She was being interviewed by two police officers. I liked Ms. Judy. She seemed like a good person. She treated us well. In that moment, I felt bad for her. One of the police officers nodded toward me in the back of the police car. I perked up when Judy looked over. I expected a look of sadness or grief. But all I got was an angry look, as if this was all my fault. I couldn’t handle her unexpected glare, so I sunk way down in the uncomfortable backseat of the police car.