In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel

by M. R. Sellars

  “These are but shadows of the things that have been,” said the Ghost. “They have no consciousness of us.”

  —The Ghost of Christmas Past

  A Christmas Carol

  Charles Dickens, 1843

  CHAPTER 7

  6:23 A.M. – December 22, 2010

  Huck’s Diner

  US 61 North – Hannibal, Missouri

  “…NEWS out of Jefferson City this morning, the license of a Kansas City funeral home has been revoked by state regulators after multiple probation violations…”

  The talking head on the dim screen continued, his voice droning outward from the speaker of the small television on the opposite side of the near empty diner. However, any further words he had on the story were all but drowned out by a far more cheerful voice that was issuing from a woman clad in a retro pink uniform, complete with an apron and a nametag that had MABEL stenciled across its face.

  “How are you this morning?” the waitress asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Constance replied as she closed the vinyl-covered, tri-fold menu and looked up.

  The woman in pink smiled. “Coffee, hon?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Regular or unleaded?”

  “Regular.”

  The waitress had come prepared. She placed a thick-walled mug upright on the table, and then with a practiced juggle of the two well-worn Pyrex globes in her other hand, plucked the brown handled one free. Tilting it carefully, she poured a stream of java while adding, “Fresh. Just made it.”

  “Wonderful,” Constance replied.

  The woman returned the pot to her other hand, once again hooking the orange and brown handles together in a death grip. Reaching into her apron pocket she pulled out a handful of creamers and put them on the table.

  “Thanks.”

  The waitress looked her over and with a genuine brightness in her voice asked, “Visiting Hannibal today?”

  Constance gave her head a quick shake. “Just passing through, I’m afraid.”

  “Too bad, we have a lot to see. And some wonderful little shops too. Great for last minute gift shopping.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Where’re you heading?”

  “North.”

  The waitress continued, undaunted by the vague answer. “Visiting family for the holidays?”

  “Business, actually…”

  “This close to Christmas? That’s a shame. Folks should be with family this time of year. Or, a pretty young lady like you, maybe with someone special?”

  Constance smiled and shrugged but didn’t offer any information. Apparently her naked ring finger was doing all the talking for her. In any case, she was ready to bring the conversation to a close before it became any more invasive than it already had. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the friendly openness of small towns, so the woman’s queries didn’t really offend her. However, she also wasn’t accustomed to the culture either. In Saint Louis, where she lived, you were cordial to others; however, if you were too friendly, even out in the suburbs, people had a tendency to think something was either wrong with you or that you had an ulterior motive, nefarious or otherwise. Unfortunately, the vast majority of the time they were correct.

  Of course, under the circumstances this exchange was probably good practice. The town where she was heading was even smaller than Hannibal, so she might as well be prepared for random Q and A from the locals there too. Still, she wasn’t ready to dive in headfirst. Not until she absolutely had to, and definitely not this early in the morning.

  Fortunately, the waitress shifted the focus of her interrogation without any other prompting. “All righty then, hon, have you decided what you’d like, or do you need another minute or two?”

  Constance smiled inwardly. Now they were back on track. She nodded and said, “The Becky’s Breakfast, I think.”

  “How did you want those eggs?”

  “Scrambled.”

  “Bacon or sausage?”

  “Do you have turkey bacon?”

  “Sure do. White or wheat?”

  “Wheat, please.”

  “Okay, I’ll have that out in just a few.” The woman in pink flashed a smile and turned to head back toward the counter.

  “Oh,” Constance called after her. “Do you have any grapefruit juice?”

  “Not sure this morning, sugar. I’ll have to check on that for you,” the waitress answered. “If we have some do you want a large or a small?”

  “Just a small. Thank you.”

  Once the woman disappeared through the kitchen doors behind the counter, Constance turned her attention toward the TV. The morning news had given way to a kitschy commercial for a local car dealership. Oh well, she could tune in the news channel on her satellite radio once she was back on the road. Besides, right now she still had some reading to catch up on.

  She took a moment to stretch. Two hours in the driver’s seat hadn’t done her any favors, given that the apparent urgency of this trip had caused her to miss her morning run, not to mention that she was operating on less than four hours sleep. She wasn’t a big fan of last minute assignments like this, but you went where your SSA told you to go. The mobility agreement was all part of the job, no matter the division where you were assigned, but most especially if you were a special agent in the field. Of course, in this instance she wasn’t even sure her SSA knew what was happening just yet. These orders had come from the SAC himself, and even he had implied that they originated from higher up the FBI’s food chain, which meant DC. Either way, when your boss’ boss is the one handing you an assignment, you don’t ask why. Not out loud, anyway.

  Still, Agent Johnson was definitely going to owe her one for bailing on this. She didn’t care if he had a bad case of the flu or not. Tit for tat, that’s how it worked. He got out of it, and she got stuck with it, so he owed her. Moreover, if he was responsible for putting her name on the short list as a backup, his payback was going to be a bitch; namely her, and she had no problem bearing that moniker when she needed to.

  What really bothered her was that the bureau had plenty of agents working from the Saint Louis headquarters, and she’d pulled more than her share of crappy assignments over the years. Wasn’t it someone else’s turn to work a holiday for a change? And why just her? Shouldn’t she at least have another agent from her squad along for the ride? Two sets of eyes were always better than one.

  Or maybe it was just that she wanted to have someone to commiserate with?

  Again, these were just more examples of questions and comments that you didn’t give voice, which is why they were now trapped on the inside with the rest of her thoughts and making a confusing din between her ears. On the flip side, it was possible she should be considering it a feather in her cap that the SAC, and possibly even someone in DC, had picked her out of the pool of agents. Unfortunately, the end of that feather was sharp, and right now it was poking through her cap and into her head in a most annoying fashion.

  Constance ripped open a creamer and poured it into the steaming mug of coffee. Then she tore the tops from a pair of sugar packets and dumped them in as well. The caramel clouds of diluting cream were already losing their billowy shapes as she dunked her spoon and gave a quick stir.

  She lifted the cup by its handle, then pursed her lips and blew across its rim before taking a tentative sip. It was still a bit too hot, so she placed it to the side for a moment. Letting out a quiet sigh, she experienced the moment of self-condemnation she had already known was coming.

  She needed to stop feeling sorry for herself. She knew the score the day she entered the academy at Quantico. She had chosen this career because it’s what she wanted to do, and that hadn’t changed just because she didn’t like the timing of an assignment. Given some of the things she’d witnessed in her time as a field agent, she could easily find far better reasons to hate her job. But she didn’t. Sometimes it gave her nightmares, yes. But she was never one for walking away from a puzzle.

>   Especially not until it was finished.

  She had to take the bad with the good, and she knew it, even if it meant not spending the holidays with Ben. She sighed again, but this time it was out of resignation mixed with a tenuous sort of contentment.

  “Everything okay, hon?” the waitress asked.

  Constance looked up, not quite startled but a bit surprised since she hadn’t heard the woman return. “Yes… Fine…” she replied. “It’s just that it’s already been a long day.”

  The woman gave her a knowing nod as she placed a short glass in front of her. “Tell me about it. Here’s your grapefruit juice, hon. Your breakfast should be out in just a couple of minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  When she was once again alone, Constance pulled out her cell phone and thumbed in a speed dial code, then tilted her head and tucked the device beneath her hair and up against her ear. After the third ring the speaker clicked and she heard a gruff voice say, “This is Ben Storm. You’ve reached my phone. I ain’t here. Leave a message.”

  “Ben, it’s me,” she said after the beep. “Looks like we have to put our plans on hold. I’ve been sent out of town on an investigation and I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be back. I’ll call you later.”

  Constance hung up then glanced at the time on the small screen. Ben was probably still in the shower right about now, which would explain why he didn’t answer. It felt later to her than it really was, probably because she’d already been up and working for several hours.

  She slipped her cell back into her pocket, then shifted in the booth and pulled a large envelope out of the faux leather portfolio lying at her side. She’d had time for no more than a quick glance at it earlier before getting started on her four-hour journey north. The SAC had called her in at oh-dead-thirty for a briefing so spotty that it gave new meaning to the word, and until now every moment since had been rush, rush, and more rush. In fact, when she’d first arrived in his office her hair had still been slightly damp from her shower. Fortunately, he hadn’t seemed to care, or even notice for that matter.

  She leaned against the padded back of the booth’s bench seat and unwound the string on the interdepartmental envelope. Considering what she’d been told during the meeting—which wasn’t much—the packet seemed a bit light and that was a concern. Starting from scratch with a new investigation was one thing, but this one was supposedly ongoing and as she understood it, had been for several years.

  With an involuntary frown tweaking her features, she withdrew a sheaf of papers, most of which appeared to be reports filed by other agents over the span of the case. Protruding slightly from the top edge of the thin stack of official documents was a laminated sheet. Constance thumbed through the papers and extracted the rigid page.

  Sandwiched inside was an aged photocopy of a section of newspaper clipping. A hyper contrasted picture took up the majority of the page, but it was really nothing more than black and white shapes with very little detail. The most you could tell was that it looked like there might be one or two people, and maybe a house pictured—then again maybe not, the quality was literally that poor.

  There was no caption, nor was there any story beneath the photo. Constance rummaged through the papers once again searching for any other laminated pages, but she found none. She then slowly flipped through them a third time, keeping her eyes open for un-laminated copies just in case. Still nothing.

  “Here you go, hon,” the waitress’ voice hit her ears again.

  Out of habit, Constance turned over the short stack of documents, placing them face down on the seat next to her.

  “Thanks,” she said, forcing a smile as she looked up at the server.

  The woman in pink shook her head. “You work too hard, young lady. You’re going to give yourself indigestion.”

  “It comes with the job,” Constance replied.

  “Well at least try to relax a little and enjoy your breakfast.”

  “I will.”

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, I think I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Okay, hon. I’ll check back with you in a bit.”

  Constance waited until the woman was back at the counter and busy filling a coffee mug for another patron who had just arrived. Only then did she slip the laminated sheet out from beneath the other papers and flip it face up.

  She held the landscape copied page by the short edge and stared at it again. She checked the opposite side, but found nothing, so she flipped it back over and continued staring, purposely cocking an eyebrow and pursing her lips into a thoughtful frown. Other than the blown-out, useless picture, the only thing that remained on the page was a headline and the dateline of the story. At least those words were still legible, even though they were less than crisp around the edges; a fault of the copier technology of the day, from the looks of them.

  The dateline below the photo read Hulis, MO - December 26, 1975.

  The sensational, six-column, two-inch block headline overhead proclaimed, MERRIE AXEMAS.

  CHAPTER 8

  11:03 A.M. – December 22, 2010

  Sheriff’s Department

  Hulis Township – Northern Missouri

  “HRRMMPH…”

  The curious grunt that issued from the sheriff was accompanied by the popping creak of springs as he shifted in the wheeled desk chair he currently occupied. After staring silently at his visitor for an extended measure of heartbeats, he pursed his lips thoughtfully, then rocked back in a slow arc before finally allowing himself to slump the last few inches and fall heavily against the backrest.

  FBI Special Agent Constance Mandalay stood on the opposite side of his desk, her credentials held forth, displayed in a well-practiced manner. The portly, uniformed man opposite her didn’t seem particularly interested in the badge and ID, but she wasn’t going to put them away just yet, even though she had identified herself verbally upon entering. She simply held his gaze, intent on establishing her authority as a federal officer.

  Audibly matted against the tense quiet of the room, the chair popped and let out a dull twang as it settled under the sheriff’s now cantilevered weight. Constance wondered to herself if one of the springs had finally surrendered for all eternity. It wasn’t that the sheriff was morbidly obese or anything of that sort, but he definitely looked like he had done hard time at the dinner table. However, the real reason for the thought was that the piece of furniture looked like a broken relic from the post World War II 1940’s. Of course, when you got right down to outward appearances, so did the man sitting in it.

  Sheriff Addison Carmichael let out a second harrumph, then raised an eyebrow and drew in a deep breath as he twiddled a pencil between his fingers. After a moment, he absently drummed it on the duct-taped arm of the heavy-framed chair while using his free hand to groom the gray-white thicket that lined his upper lip. Finally, forcing a long sigh out through his nose, he tossed the freshly sharpened #2 onto the stack of papers filling his blotter and then gave the petite FBI agent a shallow nod.

  “Go on and put your badge away, honey,” he drawled. “I already know damn well what they look like.”

  Constance quickly slid her index finger to the side and flipped the worn leather case shut, then slipped it into the inner pocket of her blazer.

  “Sheriff Carmichael, I’m sure you know...” she started.

  He interrupted. “Skip.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Skip,” he repeated. “Everybody around here just calls me Skip. Always have. If you’re gonna work with me, you might as well too.”

  “I see,” Constance replied with a nod. “Well, Skip, as I was...”

  “Where’s Agent Drew?” Sheriff Carmichael asked, speaking over the top of her once again.

  “Agent Drew was reassigned,” she answered after an annoyed pause. “In fact, he’s no longer with the bureau’s Saint Louis office.”

  “Yeah, guess I’m not surprised. They send me a different Fed every year.”
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  “Actually, you were supposed to be meeting with Agent Johnson, but he came down with the flu.”

  “Well, he would’ve been a new one too.” He shook his head. “So you pulled the short straw this time, eh?”

  “I was assigned to this case if that’s what you mean. Is that a problem?”

  “Dunno,” he grunted. “Is it?”

  “It shouldn’t be.”

  He huffed. “I actually kinda liked Drew. He had a sense of humor.”

  “As I said, Agent Drew has been reassigned. Besides, my SAC thought a fresh set of eyes might be in order.”

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “They always do. That’s exactly what Drew said when he showed up the first time. And Agent Keene before him... I could go on. You make number five, ya’know that?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So now, as usual, I’ve gotta waste my time bringing you up to speed.”

  “Not necessarily. I’ve read the file.”

  “And so did the four in front of you, sugar. Let me ask you this: Did you learn anything with all that reading?”

  Constance bristled slightly at the condescending sobriquet but allowed it to slide for the time being. “I’ll admit, the file is a little sparse on hard information.”

  “That’s because we don’t have any. Besides, readin’ and knowin’ are two different things, young lady.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m a quick study. Like I said, it really shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Woulda, coulda, shoulda... You Feds are all a bunch of damn parrots with the same vocabulary, you know that?” he grunted, then gestured toward a wooden chair. “Well, since you’re here, go on then... Sit down.”

  Constance sighed. It appeared this man still wasn’t taking her seriously, so she dug in. “I think I’ll stand, thank you.”

  The sheriff snorted. “Yeah, right... Go on... Take a load off.”

  “Really, I’m fine. If you’ll just...”

  “Listen, sugar,” the sheriff interrupted yet again. This time he rocked forward in the chair, then rested his elbows on the paper-strewn desktop as he tilted his head down and looked at her over the top rim of his glasses. “I know what you’re doing, and I ain’t got time for your little bureaucratic, girl-power bullshit.”