Thriller Box Set One: The Subway-The Debt-Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  Underfoot, her heels clicked against a marble floor, an inset of the U.S. Marshals insignia passing beneath them. A square space more than fifteen feet in either direction, a series of postings hung on one side, plaques and honorariums on the other.

  Directly in front of her was a waist-high desk measuring six feet across, open doorways standing to either side of it. Seated behind it was a young woman with blonde hair and a blue dress shirt, an earpiece plugged into one side of her head, a microphone extended down over her cheek.

  “Good morning, Deputy Marshal Lipski,” she said, her voice and the smile on her face not exactly lining up.

  “Good morning, Maddie,” Lipski replied. “How are you today?”

  “Excited to be here,” the young woman said, this time her tone matching the eye roll she added perfectly.

  “Aren’t we all?” Lipski said, aiming for the left opening, not once breaking stride. On more than one occasion, she had made the mistake of getting drawn into conversation, the young woman not quite understanding the subtle nuances of office small talk.

  And by subtle, it was clearly meant that if a marshal was walking by with coffee in hand and their gaze aimed at the ground, keep it as small as possible.

  Making it as far as the corner, her focus already on the doorway, on her desk down the hall and the work she had lined up for the day, she was pulled short by the sound of Maddie’s voice.

  “Hey!” she called, pulling Lipski up just short, her face clenching slightly in a cringe before falling away as she turned back.

  “Yeah?”

  “Marshal Burrows was looking for you earlier this morning,” Maddie replied.

  Feeling her brow come together, Lipski asked, “Did he say what it was about?”

  The right side of the girl’s face scrunched as she tried to recall the details, her eyes lifting toward the ceiling. “Something about a phone call...?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’ve never been much of a car guy. My high school years were spent grabbing the occasional drive in Uncle Jep’s farm truck, having never had a vehicle of my own. From there I went into the service, didn’t so much as touch a steering wheel for a decade.

  In the six years since, I’ve had a sedan that the program set me up with and last year got my CDL and started driving a truck, but it’s not like the thing was a high-performance machine.

  The Charger, on the other hand, felt like the real deal.

  In every way.

  The route taken from Portland east hadn’t been the most efficient, but it had been necessary. Long past were the days of having a marshal assigned to me full-time, but I did know they still kept a fairly tight watch on my whereabouts.

  The visit from Lipski last night just being the most recent example, one more prod to let me know that my life wasn’t really my own.

  As if I needed the reminding.

  Had I had it my way, I would have taken the red eye all the way to Atlanta. From there, I would have rented a car or caught a commuter flight up to Knoxville, depending on how the schedule played out.

  Casting a glance to the dashboard, seeing the time creeping up on noon, I couldn’t help but think that I should already be there. Should be stepping up onto the familiar front porch I knew so well, walking through that front door with the crooked wooden frame and the metal screen with the vertical runs in it.

  Instead, I was sitting on a stretch of highway across the middle of Kentucky, several more hours to go.

  The more prudent part of me thought maybe I should have just gone to Lipski. Called over and told her my concerns, asked if they could have someone go and check on things.

  The larger portion knew it wouldn’t have done a damn bit of good. At this point, the government got what they needed from me, the shooter and everything he represented all locked away.

  Years removed from the trial, I represented very little value to them, nothing but another hanger-on they now had to keep a watch over.

  A fact that I could practically feel rolling off of Lipski every time we interacted. Asking her to help me would have been a fool’s errand, the sort of thing that would have just made her laugh, if not worse.

  Having witnessed our relationship deteriorate to the point of open animosity, that wasn’t the part that bothered me.

  It was more the fact that even if they did as asked, went and checked on him and found something was wrong, there’d be no way for me to get there. Tipping them off would only return the ring around me back to the levels it was when I first went in, unable to go anywhere without some guy in dark shades and an earpiece magically appearing.

  If something did happen to Uncle Jep, I had to be the one to go.

  At the very least, I needed to be able to say goodbye.

  Already they likely had a good idea of where I was headed, at least in a very large sense of the word. They were aware that I had a weekly phone call, that it routed through an area code on the eastern seaboard, and that I was originally from Tennessee.

  From there, they didn’t know a damn thing, a fact I intended to exploit for as long as I could.

  Pressing down a bit harder on the accelerator, I felt the big engine of the Charger buck beneath me. Two feet from my nose, the speedometer and the RPM gauge both spiked in tandem, the former continuing to climb, the latter falling off as the car shifted into a higher gear.

  Right now, the worst thing in the world for me would be to get pulled over, though I couldn’t help but goose the engine a little faster.

  If not for the situation I was facing, for the reason I now found myself tearing across the country, the whole thing might be a little bit fun. It was the first time in ages I’d felt free to my own devices, doing something that I wanted to.

  Instead, all I could think about were the myriad things that might be waiting when I arrived.

  Reaching into the passenger seat, I took up the prepaid phone I bought with cash at a gas station outside of Louisville. The most basic model still in existence – somehow even more so than the slimmed down version the program gave me – I flipped it open and thumbed the number in from memory, hoping that somehow this time there will be a response.

  Any response, so long as it wasn’t the one I first heard the night before at home, had heard a handful of times on the drive since.

  Pressing the phone to my face, I waited through three rings before the same recording came on, the same voice telling me that Tim wasn’t home now, but he’d return very soon.

  And just like with the previous times, I tossed the phone away, a renewed sense of anger welling in me as I pressed the gas down a little bit further.

  Chapter Twenty

  The guy who stumbled to the door looked like he was barely old enough to drive, let alone drink, though that did nothing to curb the smell of alcohol that rolled off him. Standing in the doorway of the cabin two doors down from where Jessup Lynch’s body was found, he leaned heavily against the wooden frame, his eyes scrunched up tight in a wince.

  Covering him was nothing more than a sheet bunched up around his waist, balled up in a fist on his right hip.

  Above it was a whole lot of pasty skin and a disheveled twist of hair held in place by copious amounts of gel and pomade, the guy seeming to embody every existing hipster stereotype.

  Right down to the polished black BMW sitting in the driveway.

  “Yeah?” he asked, the word sounding pained, matching the expression on his face.

  “Good morning, I’m Deputy Talula Davis, Monroe County Sheriff’s Department.” As she spoke, she didn’t bother extracting her badge and waving it, trusting that her uniform and the Bronco behind her would be enough to make her point.

  Not that she really thought it was necessary, the young man failing to even open his eyes since answering the door.

  “Okay,” the guy said, pushing the word out in a single heavy breath.

  Pausing, waiting for anything further, for him to inquire why she was there, to ask her in, Davis soon realized no
thing more was coming. All he seemed interested in was the conversation ending so he could stumble back to wherever he’d been when she arrived.

  It was amazing he’d made it even as far as the door, given the state he appeared to be in.

  “I’m here looking into an incident that occurred a few houses down two nights ago,” Davis said. “I would appreciate a few minutes of your time to talk to you and anybody that might have been here.”

  It took the better part of a minute for the guy to realize what was being said to him, heavy breaths pushed out through his nose as his body swayed, trying to process.

  “Last night there was...an infant? What now?”

  Opening her mouth to respond, starting to feel exactly the distaste Peg Bannister had mentioned about the vacationers coming to the lake, Davis was cut off by a hand appearing from the side. Long and lithe with nails painted red, it pressed square against the young man’s arm, shoving him away.

  “Good God Mikey, get a grip on yourself.”

  Unable to resist in any way, he drifted off to the left, disappearing from view, replaced by a young woman in a sports bra and spandex shorts. Standing a couple inches taller than Davis, her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, her face seeming to carry none of the ill effects of her predecessor.

  Taking up a spot in the center of the doorway, she rested both hands on her hips, shoulders rising and falling an inch.

  “So sorry about that,” she said. “You have to excuse my brother. Nice enough kid, but can’t hold his whiskey to save his life.”

  Her eyebrows rising slightly, Davis said nothing, not having expected the sudden appearance of a second party, even less the decided transition of the conversation.

  “Little family graduation gathering,” the girl said, offering a smile as she thrust out her hand. “Kelly Riley.”

  “Deputy Talula Davis,” Davis replied, responding to the shake.

  “Again,” Kelly said, “sorry about that. Folks are out in the boat and I was down in the basement. Come on in.”

  Waving a hand over her shoulder, she retreated inside, leaving the door open behind her. Pausing just long enough to wipe her boots on the rug by the door, Davis did as instructed, stepping into the cool air of the cabin, instant relief picking at the perspiration on her skin.

  Closing the door behind her, she took a moment to breathe it in deeply, noticing the smell of lavender candles trying in vain to mask the scent of rye alcohol in the air.

  “Get you something?” Kelly called, her voice pulling Davis through an open living room, the vaulted ceiling more than twenty feet above her, a loft bedroom visible to the left. Stepping past a matching pair of leather sofas, she moved into a kitchen more than half of the size of her home.

  Replete with charcoal marble countertops and slate grey fixtures, the place looked like it was right out of an architectural magazine.

  As for Kelly leaning against the island in the middle, she resembled something closer to the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition.

  Again, Davis felt her sympathy for Bannister rise.

  “No, thank you,” Davis said. “I won’t be but a few minutes.”

  Taking up a post on the opposite side of the bar, she rested her palms atop it, the cool passing through into her hands.

  “I don’t know if you noticed yesterday, but there was an incident that happened two cabins down from you. Right now I’m just making the rounds, talking to anybody that might have been onsite, might have seen something.”

  Pulling her brows in slightly, Kelly shook her head, ponytail swinging behind her.

  “No, sorry, we just arrived last night. Daddy couldn’t take the whole week off, so we drove straight down after traffic.”

  Forcing a smile, she gestured with her chin in the direction Mikey had stumbled and added, “And I think you can guess what most of the night consisted of from there.”

  One corner of her mouth rising slightly, Davis had no trouble surmising a lot of things about the Riley clan, from the appearance of Mikey to Kelly’s use of the term daddy.

  Sometimes stereotypes existed for a reason, a fact as pronounced in the South as anywhere Davis had ever been.

  “Oh,” Davis said, nodding. “So, do you folks own this place or are you renting?”

  The hope was that there might be an owner she could track down and speak with, maybe even attempt to finally get the Bridgers on the phone. At the very least, perhaps get the name for a cleaning service or a previous tenant.

  Thus far, the results of her canvas had been rather scant, nobody saying they saw so much as a light on at the cabin the night before.

  “Nope, place is completely ours,” Kelly said. “An anniversary gift for mama five years ago.”

  Snorting softly, Davis felt her head rock back a bit, her eyebrows rising in kind.

  “I know, right?” Kelly said, picking up on the gesture. “Must be nice, huh?”

  “Must be,” Davis replied, a not-too-thin layer of sarcasm added on.

  “Anyway,” Kelly said, pushing herself upright and turning toward the French doors beside them. Seemingly oblivious to Davis’s comment or the meaning behind it, she said, “Like I said, they took the boat out for a spin, but they shouldn’t be too long. Can’t stay out that much, with the heat and all.

  “You’re welcome to wait here as long as you’d like for them.”

  For just the briefest of instances, Davis considered taking her up on the offer, basking in the cool of the place, wanting nothing more than to extend her reprieve from the heat as long as possible.

  Just as fast, she dismissed it, know nothing further would come from lingering.

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I think I’ve seen all I need to here.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Deputy Marshal Abby Lipski was three bites into her cobb salad when a knock sounded at the door. Short and terse, it was just two quick tones before fading away, a head popping in behind it.

  Shaped like a block, it was accentuated by thin ears and a flattop haircut, a square jaw finishing the geometric presentation.

  “Hey, got a minute?”

  Raising a hand to cover the bottom half of her face, Lipski gave an exaggerated nod, chewing quickly. Working on the bite in her mouth, she watched as the rest of Marshal Les Burrows appeared, the remainder of his form in the exact shape as his head.

  Wide and squat, he settled into the visitor chair beside her desk, his girth filling it entirely.

  “What’s up?” Lipski asked, taking up a paper cup of water and downing a swig, using it to wash away any residual greens that might be lingering in her teeth. “Maddie said you were looking for me this morning.”

  “I was,” Burrows replied. Wagging a thin stack of papers in hand at her, he said, “And sorry, I was in that damn comms meeting all morning or I would have been here sooner.”

  In truth, beyond a quick peek into his office on her way in, Lipski hadn’t given a second thought to the man since arriving.

  Such was the state of her schedule these days, it seemed.

  “No worries,” she said, turning her chair to face him. Crossing one leg over the other, she folded her hands in her laps and said, “So, what’s going on?”

  Dropping his head to stare at the papers in hand, Burrows showed her the top of his scalp, a thin spot just starting to emerge near the crown. Rifling quickly through them, he found the one he was looking for, extending it toward Lipski.

  “Thought you might want to take a look at this.”

  Keeping her focus on him another moment, Lipski shifted her attention down to the page in hand. Accepting it, she turned it to face right side up, scanning it quickly.

  It looked to be a standard office memo, the header stating the origin and destination, along with a timestamp.

  Below it was a typed transcript, the entirety of it just two lines.

  “Sorry to say, but Tim isn’t home right now. But he will return very soon,” she read aloud. When she was done, she fli
pped the page over, making sure that was everything, before handing it back to Burrows.

  “Okay,” she said. “Who’s Tim? And why do we care when he gets home?”

  Leaning back in his seat, Burrows sighed slightly, “The first answer I can guess at, the second, I have no idea. What I do know is that came in from one of the analysts this morning.

  “You know that precious phone call your one guy fought so hard to get?”

  For a moment, Lipski was at a loss, trying to place which of her dozen assigned cases he was referring to as her one guy.

  When it appeared, the name pushed right to the front, burrowing through her mind and right out of her mouth. “Scarberry?”

  “That’s the one,” Burrows said, extending a finger her way. “What your reading there is a complete transcript of last night’s call.”

  Jerking the page back her direction, Lipski read over it again, the entirety of the conversation just two lines.

  “And this was all that was said?”

  “Nothing was said,” Burrows replied. “It was a recorded message.”

  In the pit of her stomach, Lipski felt something draw tight. As if it was squeezing her lungs, breath was pulled out, nothing rushing back in to replace it.

  “Is this the first time...?”

  “Very first,” Burrows affirmed.

  “Did he try to call back?” she asked.

  “Can’t,” Burrows replied. “We have a governor in place that controls all outgoing calls.”

  “But did he try?” Lipski asked, her focus on the man across from her, her mind fighting to process what she was being told, to match it against the information she had.

  Seeming to realize what she was getting at, Burrows pressed his lips into a tight line, shaking his head slightly. “No.”

  Eighteen hours earlier, she had stood in the man’s kitchen, endured his snide remarks. At no point had she gotten the impression that anything might be wrong.