by C. J. Sears
“Yeah, I think so. You coming with?”
Kasey held up a cylindrical object with a pin and a handle inches from Finch’s face. His eyes widened.
“I’m sorry. You have a reason to be carrying around a grenade or is that a new fashion accessory?”
“A girl’s got to have style. It’s a flash-bang. Should give our pal the distraction we need.”
Finch relented. “Fine. Just make sure I’m not looking in your direction when you throw it. I’m having enough trouble wrapping my head around this crap. I don’t want to be blind too.”
She nodded and mouthed that he should run. Finch inhaled, closed his eyes, and prayed. When he was ready, he opened them and sprung forward like a cheetah after a gazelle.
Bullets sunk into the floor, missing his legs by a hair’s width. The assassin had a better angle than he thought.
He galloped, mustering adrenaline where he could, knowing that if he slowed down, he was dead.
Kasey lobbed the flash-bang and ran as it detonated next to the corpse of their former boss.
Finch dove into Sinclair’s bedroom, rolling from momentum as much to protect himself from injury. He came to a stop by the bed. Exhaling, he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
Kasey sagged next to him, blonde hair stringy and matted to her face. Both of them needed to catch their breath.
“Was it good for you too?” he asked, forcing a smile.
She choked out a laugh. “I’m not a fan of rapid fire.”
The mood lightened. The hail of gunfire ceased, but the tension didn’t disappear. Chances were that the asshole waited outside. Unless the cops arrived first; one of Sinclair’s neighbors was bound to have made the call.
“So,” Finch said, “our mole is dead. Someone tried to paint the walls with bullet holes. Mad scientists are running an experiment a week from today. And we’re clueless about what the point of any of it is.”
“That about sums it up, yeah.”
Finch sighed. “Remind me why I took this job? Or why you volunteered me?”
“Because you’re a boy scout and you can’t pretend otherwise,” Kasey said, wiping smeared mascara out of her eyes.
“Okay, you got me there. Damn honor code.”
Winter’s chill blew through the shattered living room window, bringing with it wet white crystals that soaked the carpet.
Kasey shivered. Dressed in that tight-fitting pantsuit with nothing else to keep her warm, he wasn’t surprised.
“You should’ve worn thermal underwear,” he teased.
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think that far ahead. Besides, you know you like the view from the grand balcony.”
Finch couldn’t argue with her there. “Want my coat?”
“I guess chivalry isn’t dead,” she answered, graciously accepting his gift.
Sirens whined. The cops were coming and they couldn’t explain away a dead body.
Enveloped in the faux fur jacket, Kasey turned around to look at the fire escape exit.
“We should get going. If our buddy is smart, he’ll be long gone by the time the cops show up.”
Grunting, Finch rose to his feet. He groped at his head. Swollen. A nasty lump, but he thought he must be okay. No permanent damage.
Kasey opened the window. “Ready?”
“Wait a second,” said Finch, creeping back into the living room.
When he returned, he had Sinclair’s cell phone clutched in his hand. “Figured this might be useful.”
“Good thinking.”
She scrambled through first and gave the outside her once-over. No sign of the shooter. Darkness blackened the alley.
Slippery, saturated in snow, traversing the steel grating proved dangerous. Finch struggled to stay upright. He tripped on the bottom step. Kasey kept him from tumbling over the railing.
She unhooked the ladder on the final walkway. It juddered and slid, sinking into the snow with a soft thump.
Finch climbed down, taking his time with each rung. Even with the extra cushion, he didn’t want to take the risk of aggravating his head injury.
The Metropolitan Police Department pulled up, blocking street access. One of the female officers walked toward him, hand hovering over her pistol.
“Shit.”
Kasey joined him on the ground. “Perfect. Any ideas?”
“Book a good lawyer,” he suggested.
The officer saw the blood on Finch’s face. She drew her firearm.
“Freeze,” she said, as backup moved in behind her.
“Like we can do anything else,” Kasey said with a derisive snort.
They lifted their arms into the frigid air. The officers patted them down and secured their weapons.
The emergency medical team wheeled out Sinclair’s body. The police shuffled Finch and Kasey into the back of a squad car under suspicion of murder.
He marveled at how impossibly ridiculous his first day back on the job had been. He might as well have been in a cartoon.
His life was a cartoon ACME product, prone to combustion and breakages wherever he went.
ARRESTED DEVELOPMENTS
In movies and television, cops stumbled and fumbled while the sly federal agent flashed his badge and went his merry way.
In reality, the police threw him into interrogation and asked him the same damn questions endlessly until he wanted to confess just to get them to shut up.
“What were you doing at the apartment?”
“I told you, we were following a lead on a case. Sinclair was a suspect.”
The detective scoffed. “So you say. Where’s your identification? If you’re an FBI lapdog, who’s your supervisor?”
Protocol dictated that they assume the occupation of an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation when operating in the field. Normally, he carried a rather convincing badge, but the entanglements of the case and Kasey’s haste to work caused it to slip from his mind.
Finch shrugged. “Must’ve left it at home. My supervisor should be here soon.”
They wouldn’t let him make his phone call—wouldn’t give him a straight answer why—but Kasey’s went to the director. He was supposed to be at the station an hour ago, but got blocked by an accident on the icy roads.
She was being held in the room adjacent to his, but the walls were soundproof so he couldn’t hear what she was saying. Probably the same song-and-dance he was suffering through at the moment.
“Why were you covered with the victim’s blood?”
“I thought I’d roll around in it a bit. Get a good stink going, you know?”
The detective mashed his fist on the table. “Don’t be a cheeky bastard. Answer the question!”
Finch glanced around the room, fighting the urge to say something else smart and failing. “You know: the good cop, bad cop routine usually involves more than one person. Most of the time at least one of them can act.”
“You smug son of a bitch,” shouted the detective, leaping from his chair and staring Finch directly in the eyes.
The detective worked himself into a frenzied state. Sweat glopped down his shirt like glaze on a donut. Bald and fat, he fit the stereotype of a pig all too well.
“You know I’m more than aware of the fact you can’t physically manhandle me, right?”
Not without a suspension and tons of paperwork, at least.
“You’re guilty,” said the detective, sitting down and looking so purple-faced that Grimace would’ve paled in comparison.
“As water is dry,” said Finch, enjoying this turn of the tables. After the day he had, screwing with the detective for kicks was the morale boost he needed.
“Your partner is spilling her guts right now,” the detective boasted, trying a different tack.
Finch rolled his eyes. “Oh, I bet. You know what she’s telling your partner? That you’d look good with an apple in your mouth and roasting over an open fire.”
“You mother—”
“Fa
lkner,” said a cool, almost misty voice. A wiry middle-aged man wearing sunglasses and an Armani suit stepped into the room. The director. Finch hadn’t even heard the door open.
“Who are you?”
“Samuel Rossiter. His supervisor,” he said, pointing at Finch.
Falkner wasn’t convinced. “Yeah? Where are your credentials, buddy?”
The director smiled. “Right here,” he said, moving away from the doorframe. The sheriff, accompanied by FBI Deputy Director Phil Lamarck, marched into the room.
“Under the orders of the director himself, you are to release this man into our custody and clear him of any potential charges,” announced the deputy director.
“But—”
The sheriff stopped him. “Cut him loose, Joe. When you’re done, go to my office.”
Outranked, Detective Falkner relieved Finch of his handcuffs and sheepishly walked out of the room. The sheriff followed, leaving the three feds to their devices.
Rossiter turned to Lamarck and said, “Thanks Phil. I know it was short notice.”
The deputy director shook Rossiter’s hand. “No problem. Glad to bail you boys out. Don’t forget dinner tomorrow. Grace is cooking a delicious casserole.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. Tell her I’m bringing the Chianti.”
Finch couldn’t tell if this was an actual supper being planned or code for some kind of interagency gathering. Not that it mattered; he was grateful for the assist.
“Will do.”
With a wave, Lamarck shut the door behind him.
Rossiter sat down in Falkner’s chair and cleared his throat.
“I didn’t know we were so friendly with Hoover’s boys,” Finch commented, trying to avoid eye contact with Rossiter.
The man always looked so composed. It was difficult to tell if he was pissed or merely annoyed. Rare as their meetings were, Finch couldn’t shake the impression that Rossiter was a true spook, a man with a redacted dossier and a well-documented kill record.
“Phil’s an old ally,” Rossiter said as if that was the most detailed answer available.
“I see.”
Finch tapped his foot impatiently on the concrete floor. This was already worse than Pastor Hartman’s impromptu therapy session and the director hadn’t said anything to him. Rossiter’s presence reminded him of being trapped in a smoke-filled room: you suffocated until you learned to stop, drop, roll, and get the hell away from the fire.
“I hear one of my employees is dead.”
Should they really be talking about this around civvies? Finch glanced at the camera in the corner.
Rossiter watched his eyes travel. “Don’t worry. I’ve instructed them to turn off the video and audio feeds. For all intents and purposes, this is as safe as HQ.”
“If you say so.”
The director folded his hands together. “What happened?”
“Kasey didn’t tell you?”
Rossiter shook his head. “She knows better than to discuss such things over a monitored line. Besides, I haven’t debriefed her yet.”
Finch gave him the rundown of events. The assistant director was a mole as Director Rossiter suspected. He supplied a list of names: former employees of the federal government to be used as test subjects for an unspecified experiment. He was collaborating with a scientist named Demi Conroy and supplied whoever she worked with information about the Lone Oak parasite. Finally, an unknown assailant murdered Sinclair with a sniper rifle.
He left out the part about the cancer-ridden daughter.
“It’s unfortunate that Sinclair was a traitor,” Rossiter said when Finch finished, “very unfortunate. There’ll have to be a major restructuring of our organization.”
The director thoughtfully stroked his gray goatee. “Still, it’s for the best. Left unchecked, the damage Sinclair could’ve done…well, that’s in the past. For now, you and Agent Alexander should focus on the remaining leads.”
“I don’t suppose we can get assistance?” Finch asked, thinking this was his best opportunity to sway the director’s mind from the usual policy of covert action.
“Afraid not. Article 1 Section 3 of our mandate: under no duress are we to reveal our purposes to non-government agencies. Remember, I’ve given you leeway with your Lone Oak friend because of the extenuating circumstances surrounding her affliction, but no more. Utilizing noticeable armed force would violate our restrictions and bring us into public light.”
“With all due respect, we’re dealing with heavy-duty drizzling shit here. They have access to military grade weaponry. Sinclair thought they might be government affiliated.”
He would’ve added monsters to the list of possible threats, but he had no visual confirmation. Not that he wanted them verified.
“Perhaps they are. It changes nothing. You have your orders. I suggest you follow them. No Code Omegas this time.”
The director’s firm denial of Finch’s request was disheartening but expected. Rossiter didn’t like trails or evidence linking them to a case. He was a spook through and through.
“I trust there’s nothing else?” Rossiter queried, getting to his feet and reaching for the handle.
“Actually, there is,” Finch said, much to the director’s astonishment.
Rossiter stopped in his tracks, hand clasped around the doorknob. “Yes?”
“Why would the FBI hide the facts of the McAlister case? According to Sinclair, they knew about the parasite, yet didn’t involve us. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Llewyn,” he said, oddly addressing him by his first name, “your guess is as good as mine.”
He departed without another word. Finch knew one thing he hadn’t before being arrested:
Rossiter played his cards close to his chest. But he wasn’t always the best liar.
*
After collecting his things—including Sinclair’s cellphone—from the evidence lockup, Finch met Kasey in the police department’s garage. She flashed him a smile.
He smiled back. “They let you out on good behavior? Man, if only they knew…” Finch said, trailing off. She playfully smacked him on the arm.
One of the arresting officers brought their car around, said she regretted the “misunderstanding” as she called it. This officer wasn’t a prick like Falkner. He had no reason to antagonize, so Finch dismissed her. She was just doing her job. In her position, he would’ve done the same.
He was about to get in the driver’s seat of the sedan when he remembered. Someone was expecting his call.
“Can you take the wheel? There’s something I’ve got to do.”
Kasey seemed nonplussed by his change of heart, but decided not to argue. “Sure thing. I need to change clothes anyhow and I don’t know where you live.”
Given that before all this started she’d been following him around, he doubted her truthfulness. He chose not to press the issue as he strapped himself in on the passenger’s side and dialed his home phone.
“Come on, pick up,” he said as Kasey drove to her apartment.
The line rung five times before he got an answer.
“H-hello?” stuttered the voice, barely audible and distinctly groggy-sounding.
Finch examined his watch. It was two in the morning. Crap. He’d woken her up.
“Hey, Willow. Sorry. I wanted to check in, let you know where I was.”
“Llewyn? Are you okay?” she asked, suddenly alert, her voice brimming with concern. “I waited up, but you never showed.”
“Sorry,” he apologized again, “I’ve had an interesting day.”
“What happened?”
He told her everything he felt comfortable disclosing about the case. When he was done, he waited for her response. Knowing her, she was probably gnawing on a strand of her hair in that innocent, child-like way that only she could pull off.
“Well,” she said, “bedtime’s over for me. Where are you? Let’s meet up.”
“No,” he said hurriedly, panic creeping into his v
oice. What was she thinking?
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Llewyn. You’re in over your head. Someone murdered your boss and tried to kill you. And Lone Oak’s my problem as much as it is yours.”
“No,” he repeated, “you need to stay where you are. The doctors said it’s too soon for you to be doing anything strenuous. Your surgery was only a few months ago.”
“Stop being stupid. You know I’m fine. The scar tissue’s basically healed. You’ll need help. I fought the infected too. Or have you forgotten?”
How could he? His dreams recapped the Tragedy of Lone Oak every night.
She realized her blunder soon enough. “I’m sorry, Llewyn. That was dumb. I know how it’s been for you.”
Finch assured her it was fine. It was an easy mistake.
“Look. You can’t do this alone. You need me. I need you.”
Willow was right. But he wouldn’t tell her that. Too dangerous. No one else would die on his account. Especially not her.
“I’m not alone. No, I can’t explain. Listen, just…read the news, all right? Let me know if anything suspicious comes up. They might be watching.” What a lame excuse. It’d keep her distracted.
There was an audible sigh from Willow as she admitted defeat. “Fine. Be careful, okay? I don’t think I can afford this apartment if you die.”
He laughed, and it felt good. “Duly noted. Don’t forget to feed Clarissa—she gets grouchy when I’m not around. Reminds me of someone I know. Stay safe.”
“I will,” she said, sounding happier but not content.
“Goodbye,” he said, “see you in a few days.”
“I’ll hold you to that. Bye.”
When she hung up, Finch wasn’t sure if he felt better or worse about leaving her behind. But it had to be done. If she came along and something happened—he’d have new nightmares. The kind he couldn’t cope with.
“Someone special, I take it?” Kasey said distantly, maneuvering around an upturned wreck the highway department hadn’t cleared from the road.
“Willow’s the only other survivor of Lone Oak,” he said, uncertain he wanted to discuss this with his ex. “She saved my life.”
