Dead East

by Steve Winshel

  Timmons was pointing his Sig at Khalid and shouting, “in his hands! Get what’s in his hands!” Jarvis covered the falling body of the kid with his. Khalid was dead but Jarvis treated him as though he were dangerous and intent on killing them – if he held a switch to an explosive, he might still succeed. Jarvis stood over the body and kicked with his foot. He moved the kid’s arms and legs, pushing back the trouser legs and the jacket. Nothing. In his hands was a towel and a magazine. No poison. No gun.

  Jarvis looked back at Timmons, the source of the shots that killed Khalid. “what the hell? The kid was taking a dump. That’s why he was in a hurry.”

  Brin passed by the tableau and gave Timmons a hard look before going up the stairs, like a hunter checking to see if the cub they’d just killed had a pissed off mama bear on the way to maul them. He went to the second floor and cleared all the rooms while Jarvis stared at Timmons.

  “What the hell good was that?”

  Timmons didn’t look apologetic. “I thought he was holding a weapon. Better safe than sorry.” He holstered his gun. “It doesn’t really matter. He was the last one with any of the poison. We’ll find the stuff and this thing will be wrapped up.”

  Jarvis was irritated. “Sure, sounds good. But I would have liked to have a chat with him. Maybe see if we’re missing anything.”

  “Yeah, me too, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Let’s see if we can find his stash.”

  They didn’t need to bother. Brin came down the stairs carrying a metal briefcase. “The house is clear. Look like two other rooms are used by different people, both guys, kind of messy. This was in a space under a couple loose planks, under the bed in the master.” He pointed at the kid using the briefcase. “Nice shooting.” It was complimentary and derisive in equal measure.

  Timmons holstered his gun and took the case. He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed. “Clear. I’ve got the material. Need one clean-up.” Before the phone was back in his pocket they heard a large engine coming up the street. The government SUV was moving quickly.

  The three men stood near the bleeding body, ignoring it. Jarvis broke the silence.

  “Well.”

  No one added anything. So Jarvis continued. “Brin and I were just getting geared up. Let me get this straight: you’re saying you’re covered now? The last guy with poison just stopped breathing, you’ve busted everyone on your list, and the ones I held back are covered?” He didn’t sound as disappointed or surprised as he was. He just wanted clarification.

  Timmons looked like a cop turning in his final report, ready to go home at the end of his shift and pick up a new case in the morning. “Yup, you’ve got it. Appreciate the help – couldn’t have done it without you.”

  If Brin hadn’t been so disappointed he’d have found that funny. Jarvis looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He turned back to Timmons. “No clean-up, no loose ends? You’re saying you’re all good. Mission accomplished.”

  “A lot of people are going to stay alive because of what you two did in Afghanistan. A lot more won’t be afraid. And the Taliban gets another failure. I’d say that was pretty good work. And I’m heading back to DC.” As he finished speaking, two men in suits and carrying duffel bags came in the front door. They didn’t speak, just waited for Timmons, Jarvis, and Brin to move out of the way. Timmons walked past them and out the front door. Jarvis and Brin followed and the door closed behind them.

  The three men stood in the front yard. There didn’t seem much more to say. The SUV idled in the driveway behind Khalid’s car. Timmons shook Jarvis’ hand firmly, turned to Brin and smiled. “If you gentlemen need anything, any time, just give me a ring. And I know you don’t need me to tell you not to speak to anyone about any of this.”

  Brin’s face filled with disdain. He held more secrets about government actions and black ops than a Tom Clancy novel. Timmons got in the rear seat of the SUV and didn’t look over as the vehicle backed out and sped off. Jarvis assumed another would come by to pick up the cleaning crew. He shrugged his shoulders to let Brin know it was just the usual shit and headed to the rental. It smelled slightly of cigar smoke and vomit as they pulled into the street and wound their way back to the I95 North to New York. They were quiet for about ten miles.

  “Shit.” Brin drummed his fingers on the dashboard.

  “Yup.” Ten more miles passed under the car.

  “I don’t like him.”

  Jarvis couldn’t stifle a grin. “Strike one, he’s a government agent. Strike two, he interrupted a good hunt you were looking forward to.” Jarvis let the Brin swing at the hanging slow ball down the middle.

  “Strike three, he’s a dick.” Brin pulled out his gun and checked the clip. “Let me out in Hoboken.”

  Large green signs counted off the exits on the New Jersey Turnpike. Edison was coming up. Hoboken was twenty minutes away and a ten minute subway ride to Newark Airport. “You have some business there?” It was a rhetorical question. Jarvis was pretty sure Brin had business everywhere, and a rabbit hole to disappear down in any city they passed through.

  “There’s a pretty good ribs place there. Wanted to get a bite before getting back.” If Jarvis were a novelist he could come up with some pretty good stories about what ‘getting back’ might mean.

  “You know, you could stay with me any time you want to take a break from the Outlaw Josey Wales. Or Grizzly Adams.” Jarvis looked over at Brin. Neither the movie nor the television reference registered. “Okay, think Neo from Matrix.” Still nothing. “Geez, you’ve got to get out more. Rambo, then?”

  That got a nod from Brin. “Yeah, I’ll swing by some time. Meet some of your new g-man friends.”

  Jarvis liked poking Brin. It was fun, there was no down side, and he was pretty sure his pal liked it – since there probably wasn’t anyone else in his off-the-grid world who talked about anything other than missions, conspiracies, and how much water to store in preparation for Armageddon.

  Signs for Hoboken began to appear. Jarvis moved into the right lane as they got within a mile of the exit. Brin pointed at a quiet stretch of emergency lane a hundred yards ahead near a grove of trees – one of the last signs of nature before they reached the industrial part of central Jersey and into New York City. “Just pull over up there. I’ll be good. Save you a few bucks on tolls.”

  Jarvis signaled and moved into the emergency lane. Gravel and a few pieces of trash kicked up into the air. He stopped at the spot closest to the trees and as near the guardrail as he could. “Hey, glad to see you up and around.”

  Brin showed appreciation for the deeply emotional moment and Jarvis’ happiness that he was no longer in a coma by holstering the gun. He gave his friend a smile. “We’re almost even.” He pointed out the driver’s window. “Isn’t that Lady GaGa in that limo over there?”

  Jarvis’s shock at Brin’s awareness of a hot pop star didn’t interfere with his role in the game. He turned to look out the window and kept scanning the cars for the limo as he heard the passenger door softly open and click back shut. He gave it five more seconds and said to him self, “I don’t see her. Are you sure it wasn’t Madonna?” When he turned back to the empty passenger seat, Jarvis looked out the window toward the trees and fields beyond. They were empty. He signaled and pulled forward, getting up enough speed to merge into the traffic and pass by the Hoboken exit. JFK Airport was another 40 minutes away. He’d turn in the rental and get back to LA and whatever case was waiting for him. He turned the air conditioning up to hide the stench in the rental.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The gate agent looked at Jarvis’ ticket and tore it up. He typed for a moment on his terminal and handed Jarvis the boarding pass the printer spit out. A smile accompanied it, neutral and pleasant. Not until boarding started for the 10:35 pm to LAX did he notice the line across the top saying First Class. He looked back over at the agent to catch his attention, but the man who looked like he’d been at the job for at least thirty years was helping a young, exhau
sted couple carrying two babies get seats together. Jarvis appreciated anyone whose job required them to assess the public and make split-second decisions. He wasn’t sure what about his own demeanor had screamed the need for the quiet of the front cabin, but he was glad the man had picked up on it.

  He settled in to 6A and was glad for the hushed atmosphere that accompanied not only first class but a night flight. Everyone just wanted to get settled and to sleep as quickly as possible. With headwinds, the flight was slated for an unusually long six hours and thirteen minutes. Jarvis also appreciated the stern purser who clearly intended to meet all the basic requirements of good service without lingering for an extended chat. She wouldn’t have to fend off any advances from Jarvis, though twenty years earlier she might have. He accepted the offer of a glass of water, still feeling the dehydration of the desert whether it was real or imagined. The sense of his mission being not entirely accomplished was less imaginary, though he couldn’t put his finger on why.

  Jarvis had picked up a mystery novel at the Hudson News in Terminal 7, along with a pad of paper and pen. He was several hours from his sixty minutes of daily shut-eye. He cracked the spine of the Harlan Coben thriller and was quickly absorbed. Twenty minutes later the roar of the engines caught his attention. The force pushed him back in his seat and he looked up for the first time. The cabin was only half full, the seat next to him empty. All the travelers appeared to be road warriors, the rhythm of the overnight flight familiar and easy. The only exception was Row 1. The harried couple and their kids were safely ensconced and the previously severe purser smiled and awaited level flight so she could continue doting. Jarvis leaned over the seat next to him and craned his neck back. He could see almost the entire coach cabin. While he would have been fine with his original seating, from this position it looked crowded, cramped, and generally unpleasant. Perspective. He scanned the crowd, only a few of whom looked at him with envy or anger. Jarvis turned back to look out the window and watched Brooklyn and then a segment of Manhattan fall away. He closed his eyes for a moment and began to replay events of the last couple days.

  One advantage he’d learned over the years was the opportunity for perspective associated with little sleep. Most people lived in phases. There was an active working part of their day, a lower-key couple blocks of time before and after work, and sleep. People behaved differently during those phases. It was true even for criminals or terrorists, whose notion of “work” was different from a fireman or store clerk or doctor. Jarvis had the chance to observe people during all three phases. The insight gained by spanning people’s phases could be rich and revealing. Patterns were exposed. Mistakes easier to catch.

  While everyone on the plane got ready to sleep or read or watch movies, Jarvis looked for patterns in the last week. The poisoners in LA, his visit to Racine and to Mohan in New York. Afghanistan and then Princeton. There wasn’t anything to make him think he’d missed anything. It was just the loose ends – a dozen or more names on a few sheets of paper, all who wanted to kill Americans. All tied in some way to him and Brin. He was glad it was over, but he didn’t like that he hadn’t seen it to the end. It felt unresolved. He watched the lights on the ground grow dimmer and the view took on the look of a shot from space. He flipped on the overhead light and pulled out the legal pad.

  He scribbled across the page. A map of the US, slightly better than a third-grader might produce. Asterisks for each of the cities he’d visited and a number indicating the names from the list. No real pattern, but a nice spread. Jarvis looked for something, a real loose end to pick at. He fabricated a wild tale of marauding Taliban racing across the Midwest; created images of a band of terrorists stepping off the Amtrak train in Boston; conjured a conspiracy of local mosques harboring poison and killers in the South. Nothing. Like a scab that had completely healed and no amount of scratching would make it ripe for picking. He was in equal parts frustrated and relieved. Back home he could put his focus on another case. There were half a dozen voicemails from former clients needing help and one new referral.

  The cabin was mostly asleep, the kids settled in Row 1, and Jarvis closed his eyes. Fifty-four minutes later and two REM cycles filled with flashes of Afghanistan – both recent and old – he instantly and smoothly awoke. The most senior flight attendant was standing at her post by the galley, watching him like he was a reality tv show. He smiled and she smiled back. She reminded Jarvis of his mom. He’d call her the next day, wish her happy birthday, and not talk about anything earlier than a few years ago, when things had gotten better. The flight attendant worked her way down the aisle past sleeping passengers covered in blankets and in various states of mid-sleep disarray. Taking a drink order would break the monotony of the flight. He obliged.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  A week later Jarvis was sitting in a deli across from a very large, extremely angry man whose right hand held a soup spoon containing a chunk of matzo ball and bits of chicken. The spoon was suspended between bowl and mouth because his left hand, which had been reaching aggressively toward Jarvis’s throat, was now twisted at a painful angle because of Jarvis’ grip on the man’s pinkie finger and the extreme rotation he had applied. It was a fascinating, silent tableau. Jarvis was being paid to deliver a message to this former bodyguard who had somehow confused his duties to protect a wealthy Brentwood housewife from an emotional relationship that only existed in the bodyguard’s head. Their reasonable discussion had reached an unsatisfactory conclusion and the bodyguard decided to punch Jarvis. Now they were stuck. The bodyguard was embarrassed and even more angry, the soup was getting cold, and now Jarvis’ phone was ringing.

  The absurdity of the moment deserved escalation, so he used his left hand to fish out the phone from his front pocket. The number was all fives. He hadn’t heard from Brin since letting him off on the freeway. Jarvis looked into the bodyguard’s eyes and assessed the level of violence.

  “I need to take this. Can we pick up again in a minute?”

  Violent fury melted into confusion, which Jarvis took as assent. He released the man’s hand and, not knowing what else to do, the bodyguard put the spoon to his mouth. It was a sufficiently good matzo ball that he continued to eat while Jarvis took the call.

  “Hey, you wandering around New Jersey?”

  “That reporter you made friends with in the desert? He’s dead.”

  Jarvis wasn’t expecting this news, but Afghanistan is a dangerous place. “Afghanistan is a dangerous place.” That caught the bodyguard’s attention but he was still unsure enough about what was happening with this overly calm and surprisingly quick guy across from him that he decided to stick with his soup.

  “Yeah, real dangerous. Especially if there’s a professional hit put out on you.”

  That distracted Jarvis. “How professional?”

  Brin made a brutal guffaw. “Military training, one in the chest and two kill shots, neither one necessary. Place was ransacked. Pretty good work.”

  Jarvis watched a waitress deliver a pastrami sandwich and wait while the patron – a Doppelganger of Mel Brooks in The 2000 Year Old Man – inspected it by picking up the top piece of rye bread and critically examining it. “How’d you hear?”

  “You don’t want to know. It’s the kind of job some people might want to talk to me about first.” Brin was right; Jarvis didn’t want to know.

  “Could have been Taliban, or more likely Afghan army turncoats helping them out. I’m sure they didn’t like the story he was working on after our visit.”

  Silence. “Yeah, that must be it.” More silence. “Keep your eyes open, huh?” And Brin was gone.

  Jarvis turned his attention back to the bodyguard. The rest of their conversation was civil, but he knew he’d have to visit the paramour again. He thought about Harding and wondered if the journalist died envisioning his Pulitzer.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Another week passed and no one overtly tried to murder Jarvis. Harding’s death might have been part of
a larger, multi-national nefarious conspiracy, or he was killed for asking too many questions in a part of the world where looking directly at a woman could get your eyes gauged out. Jarvis leaned toward the latter. Two o’clock on a Tuesday morning he was thinking about catching his nap, watching CNN replay the news stories from hours earlier. They were the 24-hour news network, but that didn’t mean 24 consecutive hours of new stories. He was about to flip off the set and grab a quick shower when the first fresh report of the day came on. It was 5:00 a.m. EDT and the anchors introducing their show looked fresh and ready to banter, enthrall, and inform. The lead story was about a Congressman denying he’d had an illicit affair with a supporter’s daughter, but the talking head also teased a Breaking News bulletin about one death and six sick people in Denver. Jarvis stuck around through the lurid innuendo masked as reporting about the Congressman, then three minutes of commercials that were followed by another teaser about Denver. When the anchor reappeared, he described an e coli outbreak in downtown Denver. A local fast food restaurant was apparently the culprit and officials were looking for other patrons who might have been affected. The anchor promised to cut back in with additional Breaking News on this exciting Breaking Story, but needed to move on to a tale of a housecat that had ridden a jetliner’s wheel well across country without turning into a feline popsicle.