Bad Intent

by Jordan Cole

  “I’m Dennis Fletcher,” said the man, taking a seat beside his wife. “This is my wife, Deborah. I recognize you two. You’re fugitives. Down in Virginia. They say you killed a cop.”

  Riley said nothing. Exchanged a glance with Agatha, who had stiffened. Tension in the air.

  “Relax,” Dennis continued. “You think I would have invited you into my home if I thought you were dangerous?”

  “You must have a good reason for believing we’re not,” Riley said.

  “I read the blog post you put up earlier today. A clear and reasoned argument. Slightly outlandish, maybe, but not the kind of rambling manifesto you’d expect from a pair of unhinged killers.”

  Riley turned to Agatha, who was beaming slightly. She tempered this with a self-effacing shrug.

  “I was just trying to tell our side of the story,” she said. “I’m surprised you saw it, to be honest.”

  “My husband is a bit obsessed with news concerning our son,” Deborah Fletcher said. “It’s not exactly healthy.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Dennis said. “My interest is perfectly reasonable. The missing reporter, Saccarelli, was working with Andrew. That’s how I was linked to your blog. I teach law at the University at Duluth. I’m not totally ignorant to these matters. And what’s under the surface.”

  “You can trust us,” Riley said.

  “Do we have a choice? Whoever’s after you is likely trying to make sure Andrew doesn’t show his face again. They kept him out of jail for the purpose of having him killed.”

  “What happened to Andrew?” Agatha asked. “When was the last time you spoke to him?”

  “It’s been months,” Deborah said. Gazed around the sparse kitchen, like she expected him to come out from his old bedroom and join the conversation. “The last time we spoke face to face was after he was arrested. We were interviewed by the FBI, the CIA, homeland security. All of them had a million questions for us. It was very serious. They were charging Andrew with conspiracy to commit terrorism and aiding terrorist groups. He was going to federal prison for a long time.”

  “And then he wasn’t,” Riley said.

  “They let him go,” Dennis said. “The case against him fell apart. Andrew’s lawyer was stunned. Said he’d never seen anything like it in all his years defending people. It was very strange. I have my own theories as to why.”

  “Have you talked about this to anyone else?”

  Deborah threw up her hands.

  “Who’d listen? Andrew is our son. Of course we’re going to defend him. Of course we’re going to try and rationalize our own flaws as parents that drove him to do what he did.”

  “We’re listening,” said Agatha.

  “Great. Yeah. Two fugitives on the run from the law. We’ll probably be arraigned on aiding and abetting when this is all said and done.”

  Dennis put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Deb, please. They’re here because they’re desperate.”

  That’s the truth, thought Riley.

  “Andrew was a very smart child,” Dennis said. “Particularly with computers. He knew everything there was about coding websites and assembling CPUs, and I guess hacking and more illicit activities as well. We nurtured his gift a little too greatly. Didn’t account for the social alienation, the hours he spent behind a screen. He had some personality deficiencies. Never had a lot of friends.”

  “He was shy,” Deborah said. “The computer stuff didn’t help. He was a genius at it, but it wasn’t good for his state of mind. All sorts of malicious garbage on the internet to warp the values of a fragile young kid.”

  “Someone got him into radical Islam,” Riley said.

  “Andrew dropped out of community college. He could have gone to work in Silicon Valley or coded the next billion-dollar app, but instead he just retreated into himself. Came back to live at home. Don’t know exactly how it turned into Islam but it was quick when it did. He started meeting with people in the mosques around here. Grew a beard. Carried around a Qu’ran and became fluent in Arabic remarkably quickly. Soon after he moved down near DC to connect with other militants, and we didn’t hear much from him after that.”

  Riley looked around the kitchen. Saw pictures of Andrew on the wall, from when he was a kid, an uneven bowl cut topping his head, a goofy bucktoothed smile. Hard to imagine the same kid had grown up to become an enemy of the United States. A key piece in the violent drama that had engulfed Riley’s own life. He glanced at Agatha, who was not engaged in such reflection. She was hunched over, steely-eyed, listening to Dennis Fletcher’s story with rapt concentration.

  “I don’t even know where the religious thing came from,” Deborah said. “We barely even went to church when he was growing up. Christmas Mass once a year, maybe.”

  “It’s not about religion, not in that sense,” Dennis said, sounding exasperated. “It’s about unity and camaraderie, answers in a confusing world, angry young men looking for a raison d’etre. Andrew was an outsider who became fervent in his devotion. The same way he applied himself to learning computers. A single-minded determination. It’d almost be admirable, if it wasn’t so terrifying.”

  “Andrew knew something,” Riley said. “Something or someone with enough pull to get the FBI to drop a case against him so he couldn’t testify. Agatha’s co-worker, Pete Saccarelli, was probably working with him to expose the bigger story. But now Saccarelli’s dead, and Andrew might be, also.”

  A long silence. The Fletcher’s looked at one another, like they were debating something. A clock chimed from somewhere in the house. The hour growing late. Riley and Agatha tired, hungry, and nearly out of cash. If they were going to get some useful information, now would be the time for it.

  “Andrew isn’t dead,” Dennis said, finally. “We received a letter from him a few weeks ago.”

  “An email?” Riley asked, skeptical.

  “No, an actual letter. In his handwriting. Postmarked in Boulder, Colorado.”

  “Can we see it?”

  Dennis and Deborah exchanged another look.

  “We’re afraid,” Deborah said. “That if Andrew exposes himself, he’ll be killed.”

  “There’s one more thing we didn’t tell you,” Dennis said. “Shortly after Andrew dropped off the grid, we had a visit from some gentlemen. They claimed to be from the government, but I’m almost certain they weren’t. Not in an official capacity, anyway. Nondescript white men, in their thirties and forties. Adamant that we disclose any info we might have as to where Andrew might be.”

  “Technically, he’s a free man,” Deborah added. “The FBI had no reason to be actively searching for him.”

  “What else did they say?” Agatha asked.

  “They weren’t overtly threatening,” Dennis said. “But there was a subtle menace to them. Couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I had the sense that they were debating whether or not to...take things further. But we told them as much as we knew. In the end, they told us to get in touch them right away if we heard from him. I think they decided to leave us unharmed in case Andrew contacted us at a later date.”

  “Which has happened,” Riley said. “And yet you felt instinctively fearful of these guys enough that you’d trust two fugitives over them.”

  “Basically, yes.”

  “What did the letter say?”

  “Nothing,” Dennis said. “At least, nothing that would have meaning to anyone but Deborah and I. But we understood it right away. He’s safe, and we know where he is.”

  “You need to tell us,” Agatha said. “We need to talk to him.”

  Riley studied their faces, weathered maps of regret and worry, two parents who had been through the ringer and didn’t know what to do.

  “If we tell you where he is, Andrew could be killed. He’s a radical, and he’s made more than his share of mistakes, but he’s still our son. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

  “If we don’t find him, a lot more people could get hurt,” Riley said. “Innocent people. Th
e men who visited you will track him down eventually, anyway. If they’re not stopped.”

  Deborah shook her head in disbelief.

  “And you’re going to stop them? By yourself? When every cop in the country is after you?”

  “I can try.”

  Silence.

  “The letter is gone,” Dennis said. “We burned it as soon as we read it. It was very short. Just a few lines. Andrew said he had been staying where there were a lot of apples and happy people. But he got paranoid. Thought someone might be on to him. So, he left to go be happy beneath his favorite sun.”

  “What does any of that mean?” Riley said.

  “Apples means computers,” Deborah said. “Andrew was a PC guy. He hated Macs. He used to call them apples, derisively. And happy people means homeless people. When he was a child, that’s what he called them. Ironically, I guess. Whenever we saw a bum, he’d say, look, another happy person.”

  “Computers and homeless,” Agatha said. “Sounds like San Francisco.”

  “Yes,” Dennis said. “Almost certainly. He’d always wanted to live there, before his conversion.”

  “Maybe he was laying low there, among the homeless population,” Riley said. “But it sounds like he left.”

  “When Andrew was little, we took a vacation through the south,” Dennis said. “Passed through Knoxville. One of the attractions is the Sunsphere. Built for the World’s Fair in the 80’s, I think. Andrew obsessed with it. Kind of strange, but he was a strange kid. Said it was his new favorite sun.”

  “I’d bet my life that’s where he is,” Deborah said. “Knoxville, Tennessee. He’s got no money. Can’t see him having a job. He’s got to be there, living on the street somewhere.”

  “Could have hitchhiked from California,” Riley said. “Sent the letter along the way to let you know he’s all right. He’s not that far gone, if he’s still talking to you.”

  “If you find him, just leave him alone,” Deborah said, starting to rock back and forth. “Ask him what you need, but leave him alone. Don’t let those people find him.”

  Riley didn’t respond. That seemed to be the end of the conversation. They thanked the beleaguered couple and headed out back to the car. Riley taking a long look around, searching for any surveillance. Nothing. A relief. Their enemies couldn’t be in all places at all times. He started the car and pulled away.

  “Knoxville,” Agatha said. “Seems like a long shot, but they sounded certain.”

  “Might not be as long a shot as you think. Sounds like it had some childhood significance to Fletcher. Could be exactly where he decided to run to, when things got tough.”

  “No telling how long he’ll stay. He gets rousted by the cops or gets into a fight with another bum, he could move on and we’d never find him.”

  “Right. We should probably book it down there.”

  Agatha leaned forward, face in her hands. The Olds sped through the Minnesota night, headlights cutting a dim cone across the highway.

  “Should we tell Metzer about this? Or Dallas?”

  “Not yet. I want to find Fletcher first. Hear what he has to say, firsthand.”

  “And what if we don’t find him? We’ve got next to no money left. If he’s not in Knoxville, we don’t have any place else left to turn.”

  “We’ll find him. Get some sleep. We’ll switch off in a few hours. Try and make it to Tennessee by morning.”

  Riley turned back onto the highway, headed for the interstate. Agatha nodded. Exhausted, but wired at the same time. Curled her hands up as a pillow and pressed them against the window and closed her eyes. Riley checked his rear view, looking for tails, feeling the constant paranoia and adrenaline of always being on edge start to wear at him. Nothing. Just darkness, all around. They drove on.

  23.

  Metzer and Throop had been at the impound for nearly twenty minutes before Hennessey pulled up in his cruiser, waiting for the chain link gate to swing open before slewing his car to a stop. He walked over to them with brawny strides, not doing his bumpkin county cop image any favors, at least not in Metzer’s eyes. They were at the Charlemagne police impound lot, so logically Hennessey should have been the first to arrive, but he’d been away on a call for something or other and they’d had to wait. Metzer had been irritated at first, but he didn’t mind shooting the shit with Throop. She was savvy, down-to-earth, seemingly a good deal more capable than her Charlemagne counterpart. Dealing well with the death of her partner, under the circumstances. She wasn’t here in an official capacity, not considering her personal proximity to the case, but to identify the vehicle that had been found. Either way, Metzer was glad he didn’t have to deal with Hennessey one-on-one.

  “Sorry fellas,” Hennessey said, after finally huffing and puffing his way over to them. “Bureaucratic stuff, you know? Ralph knows what I’m talking about.” He smirked at Metzer. “Anyway, hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

  “It’s all right,” said Throop.

  “Your people talked to this guy who had the car?” Metzer asked Hennessey.

  “Oh yeah, all afternoon. Hang on.”

  Hennessey whistled, and a skinny guy in his forties wearing a newsboy cap came over from his post near the gate.

  “The red SUV,” Hennessey said. “Where is it?”

  The skinny guy led them down the rows of cars, different makes and models in parallel lines. Metzer guessed the impound collected cars from Charlemagne and some of the neighboring counties. It was small in comparison to the DC lots. They only had to walk maybe fifty yards before the guy stopped them in front of a maroon red Toyota SUV before trotting back to the gate. Throop circled around the automobile, running her hand along its side until it came to a trio of tightly spaced bullet holes that had been punched into the side panel near the left bumper.

  “Oh yeah,” she said, with a pinched smile. “I made these. When Riley was escaping. This is the same car, definitely.”

  “No license plates,” Metzer said, circling the car in a slow arc.

  “We talked to the guy Riley gave it to,” Hennessey said. “Riley took the plates with him. Probably long gone by now. We don’t need them, anyway. We checked the VIN. It’s Clay Riley’s, all right. Tore the SUV apart, but nothing much in the way of evidence. Just a vehicle that was abandoned, quickly.”

  “Who’s the guy?” Throop asked.

  “Just some asshole living further down on the mountain. Riley must have seen him when he was hightailing it out of here and made him an offer. Guy gave him a white Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera in exchange. Probably thought it was his lucky day. He was trying to get a new paint job on the SUV at a body shop when the owner got suspicious and called it in.”

  “We got an APB on the Olds?” Metzer said.

  “We got everyone on that car. BOLOs all over the place. Riley bought himself some time, but his luck’s running out.”

  “Unless he’s got himself a different vehicle by now,” Throop said.

  “Unlikely,” said Metzer. “His bank accounts are frozen. So are Dumont’s. He can’t have much money left. Possible he’s stolen another one, but that presents its own problems, if he’s trying to keep a low profile.”

  “Also,” Hennessey said, “we found the bullet.”

  Metzer turned.

  “I hadn’t heard that,” he said. “Where was it?”

  “In the grass, few hundred yards from the point of impact. Sharp-eyed tech spotted it lodged in the trunk of a tree. DC techs are looking at it, but it’s been impacted pretty bad.”

  “Fired from a high-caliber weapon,” Throop said, with a shrug. “Probably all they’ll be able to tell us. Until they cross-reference it with all of Riley’s guns, and he’s got a lot to go through.”

  “You knew about this?” Metzer asked.

  “Sure. It was my partner was killed, after all. This just happened yesterday. Not surprised the MPD didn’t go telephoning the Bureau with the good news. We want to catch this guy ourselves. God knows I do.”
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  “So the bullet doesn’t really change anything,” Metzer said.

  “Not as such. But the car thing is huge. We know what they’re driving. That Olds gets spotted, we’ll have them. Only a matter of time.”

  “What about the security guy?” Throop asked. “Henderson. Any contact between him and Riley?”

  Metzer looked out over the long line of cars. Thought about their owners, the bad decisions that led to their impoundment. Shook his head.

  “Nope. FBI is running a trace on Henderson’s phone. But Riley’s staying incognito. Hasn’t gotten in touch with any of his old friends, to the best of our knowledge.”

  Throop nodded. Ran her slender hands down the side of the SUV once more, before giving it a playful slap.

  “A careful guy,” she said, just a hint of malice in her voice. “But not careful enough.”

  “No,” Metzer said, in cautious agreement. “I think we’ll have him soon.”

  “Interagency coordination,” said Hennessey. “Don’t you love it? I’m sure trying Riley will be more complicated. Too bad they’ve done away with drawing and quartering. That way all of us could have a piece.”

  “Still no update on motive, right?” Metzer said. “Like what prompted all this?”

  “We’ll let him explain that when we find him.”

  “What about the Dumont woman’s boss? Liz Farber?”

  “Gone. Probably dead. We like Riley for her murder, also. They three were all seen together the day before her disappearance.”

  “What about Dumont’s blog? I’m sure you’ve all seen that.”

  “Either Riley wrote it himself, or coerced her, or he’s warped her worldview enough that she buys into whatever he’s spinning. It doesn’t matter. The facts don’t add up. They claim a big conspiracy, but there’s no proof of anyone’s existence aside from Riley and Agatha Dumont. Some kind of weird folie a deux shit going on.”

  “It’s baffling,” Hennessey agreed. “Unfortunate Ramirez had to pay the price.”