“Nothing worth mentioning.” An odd silence followed and the distance between them seemed to grow. On the one hand she wanted to talk to him about everything. Her family. Her work. Drake. Section Chief Howard and Deanne Drukker. But she held her tongue. “And you? I see you aren’t battered up like the last time. I take it there’s been no more attempts on your life?”
“Not as much hostility here.” He leaned onto the back legs of his chair, stretched his long arm out, and pounded on the door. “Guard!”
“What are you doing?” Sidney said in alarm.
“Well, if you don’t have anything else to say, then I guess this meeting’s over.”
CHAPTER 4
Later that day at the FBI’s indoor shooting range, Sidney blasted away at a silhouette. She emptied her magazine on the target and snapped in another, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.
Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam… click.
She popped out the magazine and set her weapon aside on the counter. When she hit the switch, the target floated to her. Her bullet groupings were tight. Quarter-sized holes appeared inside the head, the heart, and two inches below the target’s lower abdomen. She plucked the chart off the clip and replaced it with another.
“Nice grouping,” said a feminine voice behind her back.
Sidney turned and found herself facing Agent Rebecca Lang. The young woman wore yellow shooting goggles and hearing protection, standard issue, like Sid’s. Slight of build and wearing loose-fitting clothes, she seemed undersized for all of her gear.
“So, what’s his name? Or is it a her?” Rebecca continued, gazing at Sid’s target.
“Its name,” Sidney said, opening up another box of bullets, “is none of your business.”
“All right,” Rebecca said, making a slight wave. “I’ll carry on then. I just thought since I happened to be taking your advice and just happened to be down here at the same time, I’d say hi. And now that is said, I’ll say goodbye.” She turned her back and began to step away.
Aw, geez. “Hold on a second, Agent Lang.”
The younger woman turned and faced her.
“Sorry, but it’s been one of those days. I apologize.” She looked at her target with the holes in it and let loose a small laugh. “Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
Rebecca nodded and smiled. She was nice looking, professional, and carried a determined look about her. “I think it would make for a pretty cool poster. Maybe keep it on your wall in your cubicle. Put a note on it saying, ‘Ask me what happened to the last guy I dated.’”
“Kinda dark, don’t you think?”
“I’m a data analyst, not a comedian. Just trying to make some honest conversation.”
“I’m not in much of a talking mood right now.” She fed bullets into her magazine.
“You’ve got some pretty fast fingers,” Rebecca said. “Is there a trick to that?”
Sidney loaded one bullet in after the other, saying, “Press and slide. Press and slide. I used to fill magazines for my father when I was a kid. He was a sheriff. I’d go to the range and help him and his deputies all the time. By the time I was sixteen, I could outshoot all of them.” She slapped in the magazine, twirled the gun on her finger, and stuffed it in her holster. “We watched a lot of westerns, too.”
“They don’t teach that at the academy. Any chance you could show me that roll?”
“Show you that roll?” Sidney shook her head and flipped the switch. The target glided out toward the back wall. She flipped the switch off. The paper silhouette lingered about twenty-five feet away. “This is how I roll.” Cat quick, she slid her Glock out of the holster, took aim, and blasted away. In seconds, the magazine was empty. Empty bullet casings rattled off the floor. She holstered her gun and flipped the switch.
Rebecca stepped closer, eyeballing the target.
The target had holes that formed two eyes, a nose, and a mouth.
“Is that a belly button or a bad shot?”
“It’s a belly button,” Sid said, taking down the target. She had a wry smile. “A little something I learned watching Lethal Weapon. Ever see it?”
Rebecca shook her head. “No.”
Sidney reloaded, twirled the gun on her finger, and holstered it. She said to the woman, “I love shooting. That’s why I’m good at it. And if you don’t love it, chances are you won’t ever be any good at it. We’re best at the things that we love most. That’s not always good in some cases, but it’s often true.” She patted Rebecca’s sidearm. “Do you love that weapon?”
Rebecca shrugged her brows and shoulders.
“Well, I love mine. That’s the difference. Find out what you love, and do it.” She gave her the ole Ted Howard squeeze on the shoulder. “Good luck with that. I’ve got to go.”
“Is there anything you love more than shooting?” Rebecca asked.
Without turning back or slowing, Sidney said, “Of course, but loving your weapon is so much easier.”
***
“I’m an attorney.”
“Oh really,” Sid said, rolling her eyes. She’d stopped at a restaurant to grab a bite to eat on her way home. The place was busy. Lots of suits and ties. A working crowd. Not wanting to wait for a table, she’d settled in at the bar. “Well, let me take my panties off and give them to you right now. So impressive. Please. Your place or mine?”
“Look, I was just making conversation,” he said, pushing back his hair. “I wasn’t trying to brag or anything.”
“Of course you were.” She fixed her eyes on his and took a swig of beer. “And you said ‘I’m an attorney’ as if that were something rare. Have you ever picked up a phone book? Have you?”
He eased back and said, “Yes.”
“There are more attorneys in there than anyone else. Almost double. So pray tell, what makes attorneys so special?”
“I-I…” he loosened his tie and took a half-step back. “I swear I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yes, you did. But let me tell you what is special: plumbers. You see, plumbers are useful. They fix things. Your kind, they just make a mess of things.”
“I’m not a divorce attorney. I’m not even a trial lawyer. I’m a title attorney. That’s all.”
She narrowed her eyes on him. “Did I say anything about divorce lawyers or trial attorneys? Are they bad or something?”
“Look, I just think there are stereotypes, and plenty of them are accurate, but that doesn’t mean we’re all bad. We’ve done plenty of good things.”
“Really? Well, please tell me one good thing your profession has done.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. He had a little curl in his tawny hair, soft eyes, and a gentle smile. Lean but well built. “Look. I’m sorry. I don’t have very much experience in the bar scene. I just thought you were pretty and maybe I could buy you a drink.” He turned away and waved. “See ya.”
Sidney shrank back on the bar stool. The man, right around her age, settled back down at his table, alone. A title attorney. Probably lying. She drained her beer and set it back on the bar.
“Another, Miss?” the bartender said, wiping down the bar.
“Uh, sure.” She didn’t drink much, and when she did, usually one was her limit, but tonight was different. Smoke had given her the cold shoulder, and she suddenly felt more alone now than ever. Something needed to fill her. Cold beer. Why not?
***
Sidney stirred in her bed. There was a rattle in her bedroom. She eased her gun out from underneath her pillow, heard a soft scuffle of shoes, turned, and pointed.
“Easy! Easy!” said a man, dropping his pants to the floor and raising his hands.
She lowered her weapon and rubbed her aching eyes. “Damn.” The clock on the wall read 2:10 in the morning.
“Sorry,” the man said. His name was Roy, the title lawyer she’d met earlier. After another beer, she’d cozied up to him at the restaurant, and things had steamrolled from there. “I didn’t want to wake you.” He glanced down at hi
s trousers. “May I?”
“Go ahead.”
He slid his pants up and tucked in his shirt. “Is this a one-night thing, or can I call you again?”
“It’s a moment of weakness on my part.”
“You don’t have to be so glum about it. I’m pretty sure we both had an excellent time.”
Not going to argue there. “Just consider it your lucky night.”
He tightened his belt. “Maybe you should consider it your lucky night.” He flashed a nice row of teeth. “You yelled out my name a few times, as I remember.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hmmm.” He snapped on his watch. “Maybe that was me yelling out your name. Hope I didn’t disturb your neighbors. It’s a nice area you live in here.” He sat down on the bed and put his shoes on. “Are you sure I can’t call you sometime?”
“Look, you’re a nice guy, but no thanks.”
“Yeah, I know. The nice guy never gets the girl. I’ve heard it before. Bad girls don’t like nice guys.”
“I’m not a bad girl.”
“Uh, I just finished sleeping with you, and well, by my standards—which are well coordinated with the likes of Maxim magazine and such—you’re a bad girl.” He got up, slipped on his suit jacket, and said, “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”
Maybe. “I’m sure.”
“Sidney, you’re a magnificent woman.” He started across the bed and tried to kiss her.
She placed her hand on his face and pushed him back. He mumbled a word, awkward in her hand. “Just get going, Roy. And don’t swing by or look me up.” She patted her gun on the pillow. He’s not a bad guy. Fit. Effective. A second time is considerable. “I mean it.”
“Loud and clear,” he said, saluting. A buzz erupted inside his pocket. He fished the phone out and answered. “Yeah. Yeah.”
Sidney cocked her head. There was an irritated woman’s voice on the line.
“I’m on my way. Long night, it’ll be fifteen minutes. Thirty tops. I love you too. Kiss. Kiss.”
Sidney’s eyes widened. “You’re married!”
Roy started backing toward the door. “Hey, you didn’t ask. I thought it was cool.”
“I didn’t ask because I didn’t see a ring on your finger!”
“Pfft! How dated is that? Sorry, but you should have asked.” He turned the doorknob and began his exit. He eyed her up and down. “Besides, bad lawyers don’t wear wedding rings. Especially ones that are actually divorce attorneys.” He flashed his teeth. “Thanks, you hellcat, you.”
As Roy closed the door, she just shook her head.
CHAPTER 5
Sidney scrubbed a rusty spot around the drain of her bathroom sink with a Brillo pad until her elbow ached.
“Why won’t you go?” she said through clenched teeth. She rinsed the spot and the rust was still there. “So be it.” She removed the rubber gloves, tossed them in a plastic pail, and headed to the kitchen. There she placed another coffee pod into the machine. The coffee maker vibrated on the counter a little, and thirty seconds later she had another fresh cup of brew in her hand. She looked at the five empty pods on the counter and swept them into the trash bin. Get it together, Sid.
It was 6:37 in the morning, and she hadn’t been back to sleep since Roy left. She’d showered. Cleaned. Washed and dried. Her apartment, normally well kept, was now spotless. Counters were wiped clean. Not a dirty dish in the washer, the sink, or on the counters. All of her clothes were folded or ironed and hung. No dust bunnies lurked under the bed. She took a drink out of her coffee mug. It was a keepsake from her Air Force days, with a logo of a skull wearing a beret and the letters ABGD. Air Base Ground Defense. Those were the days.
She mopped a thin film of sweat from her brow with a dishrag. I think I may need to shower again. Meandering into the bathroom, she thought of Smoke. She couldn’t get his brush-off out of her mind. She couldn’t think of anything she’d done wrong, either. I didn’t do anything wrong. Deep inside, her feelings stirred. She’d done something. Inside the tub and shower, all of the porcelain had a nice sheen. No soap buildup surrounded the drain nor watermarks the basin. Everything smelled clean. Not gonna be enough.
She put on a set of gym clothes, packed a duffel bag, got in her car, and drove to the gym. The showers there were plenty hot after a good workout, and the sauna would do her good. Still, the more she tried not to think about Smoke, the more he cropped up, a stealthy intruder invading the privacy of her mind. Why the sudden rejection? Was there a message in it? What was his reason? They hadn’t even talked about the Black Slate, AV, or Night Bird. She didn’t have anyone to talk with about those things.
Inside the gym, she had a purpose-filled workout, hammering at the heavy bag. Large drops of sweat splatted on the rubber-coated floor, forming tiny puddles. She wiped it up with her towel and headed for the sauna. There, she spent twenty minutes listening to a pair of older women discussing the sexual inefficiency of their husbands and planning a girls’ trip to Vegas. The shower she took was hot, pleasant, and without any busybody neighbors. Refreshed and dressed for work, she left the gym and headed for her car.
“Excuse me, Agent Shaw?”
She turned. There stood a husky man in a weather-beaten trench coat and a Redskins ski cap that hung over his ears. He had a shifty gait as he approached.
“That’s close enough, Mr…”
“Davenport. Russ Davenport.” He tipped his scruffy chin that went well with his scratchy voice. “I’m a reporter for Nightfall DC.”
“Never heard of it,” she said, easing back toward her car. “Care to explain how you know who I am?”
“Well, I’m an investigative reporter in the middle of an investigation. Surely you understand, being an investigator yourself.”
“Oh, I understand. You’re stalking a federal officer.”
“It’s still a free country. I’m just making conversation with a fellow citizen with whom I might have something in common. That’s all.”
“So, you’ve been waiting for me in a parking lot?”
He glanced back at the gym and patted his tummy. “I’m not one for working out much. It interferes with my fully processed diet.” His eyes darted around before they fixed back on her. “Look, I’m not a troublemaker. I just have a question.”
She popped open her car door. “Then you’ll have to contact the FBI and go through the proper channels. They have a media center. I’m sure you’re well acquainted with the Freedom of Information Act. Go there, or else you might find yourself in prison.”
“You’re working on the Black Slate,” he interjected. “Have you seen any werewolves lately? Giant birds, maybe?”
She froze. No way! She held his gaze and shook her head. “DC is full of a lot of crazy things. A lot of people see one thing, and someone else sees another.”
“I got proof,” he said, raising his double chin. There was a satisfied look on his chubby face. He withdrew a plastic bag from his pocket. There was a large feather in it. “Look familiar?”
“No.”
“I found this at the truck stop where that FBI chopper crashed. Normally I don’t report on those bigger stories, but on social media there were some tall tales—of a giant bird, for instance.” He coughed into his fist. “Well, how did I come across this?”
“DC is notorious for its really big pigeons.”
“True, Agent Shaw, but this isn’t that kind of feather. You see, I’ve got a friend who works in the Smithsonian. He’s in the ornithology department—that means birds. He freaked out when he saw this. He said, ‘I’ve never seen anything on this planet like it.’ I almost didn’t make it back out of there. Really creepy.”
“Maybe you should have just left it with them. I’m sure they would have paid good money.”
“As you can see,” he opened his jacket, revealing a cheap shirt and cheaper blue trousers underneath, “I’m not into money. I’m into the truth. I know there are monsters out there, and I know that you ha
ve seen them. Just tell me more about what you saw.”
“Oh, there are monsters all right, Mr. Davenport. You know as well as I do that this town is full of them. But the kind you’re talking about, well, I don’t have any proof on anything.” She got inside her car and started to close her door. Russ grabbed the door. She tried to pull it shut, but his strength was firm. “You need to let go.”
“You might not have any proof, but you have your word. Eyewitness testimony is the most convicting.”
“And many eyewitnesses are also known to be convicts.”
“You aren’t a convict.”
“How do you know for sure? How do you know anything for sure?” She closed the door, started the engine, and pulled out of her spot. She heard him yell out and say, “Nice car!”
Gunfire cracked out of nowhere. Pop! Pop! Pop! She flinched and checked her mirror. Russ was on the ground, clutching his chest and bleeding on the pavement.
CHAPTER 6
Glock ready, Sidney rushed out of her car toward Russ. He lay on the ground, moaning. Scanning the parking lot, she didn’t notice any threat, just some gaping onlookers.
She pointed at one and said, “Call 9-1-1!” She kneeled at the man’s side. He had two bullet holes in his side. Placing her hands on it, she applied pressure.
“Oh!” he said in alarm. His face was ashen. Eyes wide open.
“Easy, Russ. Easy. Help’s coming.”
His jittery gaze held her eyes, and he said, “Why would anyone shoot me?”
Because you know something you shouldn’t know. She shushed him. “Save your strength, okay? Help is on the way.” A small crowd gathered. “If you can’t help, step away!” Most gawked, and a couple of others pulled out their phones. Indecent idiots!
“Dude, I might catch a shot of him dying,” said a young man in a ski cap, tank top, and baggy sweatpants. He had more tattoos than teeth. “Wouldn’t that be cool?”
“Yeah, man,” said another one. “Pretty sick. Get closer. I want to show my girlfriend. She loves this stuff.”
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