by Jordan Cole
“You should keep it that way. You remember that guy Ms. Dumont had talked about? Scott Amundsen? Her stalker?”
Riley nodded.
“There’s no record of him every existing. No driver’s license, no passport. I checked the work orders at the Fletcher building. No one by the name of Amundsen was ever in the offices of Accounting Magazine during the time frame described by Ms. Dumont.”
“That’s not true,” Riley said. “Agatha wouldn’t make that up. Liz Farber remembered him. He was there.”
“I don’t know if he was or wasn’t,” Ramirez said. “All I know is, someone is lying to me, and I don’t like it.”
Riley shuffled his feet.
“Anything else I can help you with?” he asked, smiling as broadly as he could manage.
“Stay away from Agatha,” Ramirez said. “Stay out of this case. I mean it. I see your face around again, and we’re going to have problems.”
He dismissed Riley with a curt hand wave. Riley nodded. He got up and walked out of the station, a sea of angry eyes following him as he went.
***
He called ahead to let Agatha know he was returning. The motion detectors would sound as he approached, and he didn’t want her to be alarmed. He told her to head to the safe room so she could watch his progress. Make sure it was him. He drove slowly, the shade from the trees making it seem darker than it was. No signal from out here that anything was wrong. But inside, the alarms would be wailing like it was doomsday. Riley pulled up to the front of the cabin and parked. He could hear the shrill klaxons, ringing from inside. Other than that, the cabin looked peaceful. Agatha’s Hyundai unmoved from where it had been the night before. That was good. No ill-advised excursions to the store.
Riley unlocked the door and went inside. Made his way downstairs, where the reinforced door to the panic room was shut tight. A camera watched him crookedly from the ceiling, like a gnarled finger. He flashed a peace sign. A moment later, he heard the lever on the pressurized catch, and it swung open. Agatha stood there, one arm slung against the door. Relief mixed with frustration on her face, like she’d had a nervous time of it, waiting around all day. The alarm still blaring. Riley punched in the code on the keypad and the klaxons fell silent. Agatha shuffled past him, back up to the kitchen. A claustrophobic gesture. The panic room might have been safe, but it wasn’t a place anyone wanted to be for long. Riley followed her upstairs.
“I was making dinner when you called,” she said, flicking the stove’s burners back on. Sauce and pasta, cooking side by side. The smell of garlic and spices filling the air. “Felt like I had to do something. Then I had to shut everything off to go downstairs. I hope it’s not all ruined.”
“You didn’t have to do that. We could have just ordered a pizza.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I don’t think so. Not while you get to run around all day, and I’m stuck here. I needed to have something to keep me busy.”
“It’s for your own safety.”
“I know. But that doesn’t make it easier.” She stirred the sauce, adding more pepper from a shaker Riley scarcely knew existed. “Any breaks in the case? While you were digging around?”
Riley ran a hand through his hair. Sat down at the table.
“Pete Saccarelli is officially missing. Farber and Peter’s mother called the MPD. Ramirez knows about the break in at Saccarelli’s place. That’s what he wanted to talk to me about. He’s suspicious.”
Agatha said nothing.
“The two guys at your place had no record,” Riley continued. “IDs were carefully established fake identities. Professional grade stuff.”
“What about Caliban?” Agatha asked. “Any ideas?”
Riley shrugged. “That’s the key to this whole thing, I think. That and the directional mic. But it’s not enough to go on. Just a name and a place. A monster from Shakespeare who was misunderstood.”
“Whoever Pete was meeting,” Agatha said, musing to herself as she cooked. “That’s what’s tying it all together.”
“They must think he gave something to you,” Riley said. “Saccarelli. That he had some big new story he was working on. Maybe he hadn’t told you yet, but he was going to.” He sighed.
“Maybe we should come clean,” he continued. “The break-in and the bodies. Police are taking it seriously now. They can put a detail on you. I can’t keep you here forever.”
“What about you? You’ll be in a lot of trouble.”
“I’ve beaten worse raps. They cleaned up the bodies, which is good. Hard to convict without a corpse. The break in, we could say we found it that way. Had a look around. I don’t know.”
He stared ahead, watching the steam rising from the pots as Agatha stirred. The situation had gotten away from him. It was sprawling, growing messy. He didn’t know who the bad guys were, where they were, or what their next move was going to be. All he knew was they were pros, and they wouldn’t stop. Diving in further without getting a better handle on things was going to get one of them killed.
“Let’s eat,” Agatha said, maybe the most reasonable words Riley had heard all day. “We’ll make a decision by tomorrow.”
So they ate. The meal was delicious. Linguini with a rich sauce cobbled together from whatever stray ingredients Agatha had dug out from the pantry. For a little while they forgot about the reason they were here together and enjoyed themselves. Riley found a bottle of wine, uncorked it, and they got to talking.
“What happened with your ex-wife?” Agatha asked. “Irreconcilable differences?”
“Pretty much.” Riley sucked a long strand of pasta into his mouth, savoring the tomato and basil. “Same story you’ve heard a thousand times. I was overseas mucking things up, she waited around and stayed faithful. When I got back it turns out she didn’t really like me much anymore. Not that I blame her. I was moody, on edge. Not quite PTSD, but definitely its close cousin.”
“Battle fatigue, huh.”
“I missed it and I didn’t. Hard to put your finger on. She could only put up with so much for so long.”
He shrugged.
“Enough about me, anyway. Your turn to get grilled. Why are you still single? A vivacious young working professional like yourself?”
“Too into my job, my blog.” She turned linguini over with her fork, playing with it. “Been on a lot of first dates that didn’t work out. Friends trying constantly to set me up. Stuffed shirt guys on the beltway. Always having to one up each other. Not my thing.”
She sipped some wine. “And the stalker certainly didn’t help. Only served to confirm my existing biases. Now look where I am.”
Riley couldn’t find anything to say to that. Just nodded, and polished off the last of his pasta.
“One day, though, right?” he said, finally. “You’ll find that special someone.”
“Oh, for sure.” She looked back up at him, confidently. “I’m not worried. You can’t worry. That’s when you get in trouble.”
She pushed her plate forward.
“I’d get us something for dessert, but I’m not sure what I have in there,” Riley said. “Some Little Debbie’s, maybe.”
“Don’t stress about it. Shouldn’t have eaten that much anyway. Feel like I’m going to explode.”
He rose, started to gather the dishes.
“Show me what you wrote on your blog,” he said. “I’m interested.”
She nodded.
“All right. I think you’ll be impressed at my discretion.” Dragged his laptop in from the den and set it up on the table while Riley cleaned. He saw her checking her email, scrolling through a long list of bold, unread messages. She clicked one.
“Who’s that?” Riley asked.
“Farber. She usually only writes me at my work address. She must be worried.”
Agatha began to read aloud:
“Agatha, just checking in to make sure you’re okay. Please do not worry about missing work, given the circumstances. Let me know if you hea
r from either the police or Peter. Stay safe.”
“Nice of her,” Riley said.
“Yeah,” Agatha said, typing back a short reply. “She seems stern at first, but she cares, deep down.”
“Caring or not, don’t tell her where you’re staying.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Obviously.”
Agatha pulled up her blog, a black and white banner atop the page reading People at Work. A professional looking website, a neat template with layered articles posted against a background of the DC skyline. The lead story was dated today, titled Trouble in Capital City. Riley read through what she had written. Agatha detailed how Peter Saccarelli had gone missing, that he was possibly on to a big story, and that she was staying incognito for her own safety. She provided only vague details, but a healthy sense of urgency and danger. Riley’s name wasn’t mentioned. The comments section filled with sympathy and speculation, readers imploring Agatha to keep her head down. Riley nodded, satisfied. There was enough here to ensure that her disappearance would not go unnoticed. Which was all they could really ask for, at this point.
“Good job,” Riley said. “It’ll get people talking.”
“I hope so. I hope it kickstarts the search for Peter. I’m really worried about him.”
Her phone beeped, and Agatha took it from the counter, turning it over in her hands.
“I’ve been getting a ton of texts from people wanting to know what’s going on.”
“Don’t respond. Not yet. You don’t need to give away any information.”
“Yeah, I know. Keep the cards close to my vest and all that.”
They drank a few more glasses of wine, bullshitting, talking about their plans for the following day. Agreeing they would come to a decision regarding the police, one way or the other. A few more hours went by, and soon Agatha was yawning.
“I’m beat,” she said, resting a half-full glass of wine on the table. “Not used to being cooped up inside all day. It’s put me in kind of a stupor. Can’t concentrate. I’m going to turn in.”
“Okay,” Riley said. He wasn’t about to argue. Poured the rest of her glass into his with a wry smile and watched her head upstairs. Heard the upstairs sink running as she prepared for bed. Pictured her undressing for a moment, then shook his head to clear himself of the thought. Not a proper avenue of concern, in a bodyguard/client relationship. Not if he was considering himself a professional. He went down to the safe room and made sure all the checks were in place. Then he went back to the kitchen and finished the rest of the bottle of wine. Had the notion to open another one but somehow disabused himself of it. Instead he grabbed a beer from the fridge and watched old movies on the TV in the den until it was late. Went up to his own bed and passed out without much fuss.
Riley had six good hours of sleep. He then awoke to one of the most bloodcurdling screams he’d ever heard.
15.
He was out of the bed before he knew what was happening, bolting downstairs in his boxers and wifebeater. The sun was up, and his internal clock telling him it was around seven in the morning. No alarms ringing. No sounds of a struggle. Within seconds he was down to the kitchen, where Agatha was slumped over in a chair. Her face eggshell white, a hand clamped over her mouth. A cup of coffee had spilled, splashing up and staining the hems of her dress. Her eyes wide and full of tears. On the table in front of her was her cell phone.
“What?” Riley said. “What’s wrong?”
She nodded at the phone several times, great trembling shakes of her chin. Turning her head away, like she couldn’t look at it. Riley scooped it up. Saw what was on the screen. Felt his stomach lurch.
It was a photo, sent via private message. But instead of a smiling selfie or a shot of the beach at sunset, it was a picture of a body.
Body parts, actually.
Liz Farber’s head resting on a bloodstained mattress. Her patrician mouth agape in a rictus O, eyes drained and half lidded. To the right of her head was her torso. To the left were her limbs, slick with blood, arranged in a neat pile. Legs and arms, resting atop one another. Like they’d been hacked off with a saw. Or a machete.
There was a message beneath the picture. It read:
We know where you are. We’re coming for you.
Riley closed the application. Opened it again. But the picture was gone. Deleted. Replaced with a vibrant image of a bowl of plums.
“Safe room,” Riley said. “Now.”
Agatha was still shaking back and forth. Incoherent. Her mouth moving but no sound coming out. Riley snapped his fingers, gave her a soft tap on the head. She snapped back, dazed. Her eyes met his.
“Safe room,” he said, louder this time. “Let’s go.”
She nodded. Hustled out of the kitchen and down the stairs. Riley raced back up to his bedroom. Put on pants and a shirt. Found his revolver and knife from the day before and shoved them into his pockets. Ran back down into the panic room where Agatha was waiting, pressed up against the wall. Slammed the door shut and locked it tight.
“I don’t know what’s going on why Liz she didn’t even have anything to do with this she’s dead Riley she’s dead they cut her up into pieces they just--”
“Stop,” Riley said. He was staring at the security monitors. There was no activity from the outside. Just grass and trees, morning sun, birds swooping overhead. A new day dawning. “This could be a ploy. Trying to draw us out.”
“They killed her Riley. They really killed her.”
“Calm yourself for a second. Who sent you that picture?”
Agatha sucked in a breath. Steeled herself against the concrete wall.
“I got another email from Liz about fifteen minutes ago. Just saw it now. She said it was urgent. That I needed to check my phone right away. And then…”
They got to her last night,” Riley said, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have let you respond to her email. Shit. They probably traced my IP address. They do know where we are.”
“Oh my God.”
“It’s all right.” He took her shoulders, trying to calm her. “I told you, they can’t touch us in here. They can burn this cabin to the ground, and this room will be left standing.”
“We need to call the police. We need to talk to Ramirez.”
“Yes,” Riley agreed. “I think it’s about that time. But I--”
The klaxons whooped to life. Agatha put her hands against her head. Riley saw the triggering object on the monitors. A car, traveling lazily along the pathway up to the cabin. Maybe a few hundred yards out. Looked like a Crown Vic with two occupants. Making no attempt at concealment. Just cruising on through, like they had nothing to hide. Riley watched as the car drew closer. Until finally it pulled to a stop at the front of the cabin. The driver and the passenger got out. The passenger was a small woman, black, wearing a blazer and a pair of dark sunglasses. The driver was slightly taller, in an ill-fitting suit.
“There he is,” Agatha said, staring over Riley’s shoulder. “That’s Ramirez. But how did he know?”
“What the hell is going on?” Riley muttered. She was right. It was Ramirez, and the woman Riley had seen at the police station the day before. Ramirez’s partner, probably. But they shouldn’t be here. They had no reason to be here yet. Unless…
“Oh no,” Riley said. He fumbled around in his pocket, looking for his cell phone. But he’d left it somewhere upstairs. “Goddamn it. No.”
He watched the screen. Ramirez stretched, smiled, exchanged a few words with his partner, who was checking something on her cell phone. He sauntered toward the front door.
Then there came a gunshot.
Neither Riley or Agatha could hear it, not in the reinforced safe room. But the sound reverberated in Riley’s mind as if he was standing right beside the rifle. The bullet entered the right side of Ramirez’s head. Twisting him around for a split-second, until the pressure built up in a tremendous wave, blowing out the back his skull. Blood and bone fragments sprayed out in a red
miasma of gore. A high caliber, high velocity round. An expert shot. Ramirez never stood a chance. He collapsed like his strings had been cut.
Agatha screamed.
Ramirez’s partner dropped her phone. She stood, rooted in shock.
“Run, goddamn it,” Riley said, watching the screen, barely aware he was speaking. “Run!”
But she didn’t. She stared down at Ramirez’s body. The realization of what had happened finally hitting her. She began staggering back to the Crown Vic, a slow, drunken shuffle.
She's a sitting duck, Riley thought. She won’t make it five feet.
But he was wrong. No second shot ever came. The woman made it back to the car. Crouched down in the driver’s seat. Riley saw a radio in her hand, her mouth moving frantically. Calling for backup. His mind raced.
Anti-authority type. Last seen at the MPD precinct having a confrontation with Officer Ramirez. Dozens of long range rifles found all over the property. Combat experience. Willing to take matters into his own hands.
“We need to get out of here,” Riley said. For the first time since an IED had exploded a block away from him in Anbar province, he was afraid. Really and truly afraid.
“What?” Agatha said. Her voice rising manically. On the verge of hysterics.
“They’re setting me up. Sons of bitches are setting me up.”
“They’re shooting! We can’t just…”
“They’re making it look like I killed Ramirez. The cops will haul me away and they’ll get to you. That’s their plan. I’ll be in jail, and they’ll kill you. That’s how they want it to go.”
He grabbed her again, wheeling her around.
“Do you trust me?”
“Riley, I…”
“Do you trust me?”
Her eyes agape. Breathing hard. But a survivor. A warrior in civilian clothes.
“Yes.”
“Then we need to go. Now.”
Riley loosened his grip. Took one last look into the monitors. Ramirez’s partner was still on the radio, frantic, her hands moving in wild gesticulations. Blood staining the dirt around Ramirez’s body. They couldn’t leave via the front of the cabin. Not while there was an active shooter still out there, and an entire armored division of police and SWAT teams soon to arrive. But that’s where the cars were parked, and right now, they were their only means of escape. He released the pressure lock and hustled Agatha from the panic room. Ran to the safe in his bedroom and unlocked it. Found the cash inside and stuffed wads of hundreds into his pockets. Went back downstairs and scooped the keys to the Toyota off the ring in the kitchen and went out through the backdoor, Agatha following close behind. He pointed to a rusted shed, maybe fifty yards back from the cabin, where he kept his tools and lawn mower and other junk.
