by Tom Abrahams
They felt like twin sonic booms from inside the Dome. We’d made our way to their exit, careful to stay back. Mack was on his way back when the blast forced him all the way inside. We helped him up and stepped back outside into the parking lot. Twenty yards from us, a Cadillac Escalade is on fire. The front passenger door is open, and a body is hanging from it.
The front cabin is engulfed in flames; the rest of it filled the thick black smoke pouring from broken windows. There are shards of glass everywhere. There are other indescribable pieces of things smoldering on the asphalt.
With my weapon drawn, I slowly approach the passenger side. When I walk around to the front of the open door, it’s obvious the body hanging from the SUV belongs to Liho Blogis. His eyes are open, his mouth agape. Not much else is recognizable. I only know it’s him because of the clothing.
There’s a driver slumped against his door. I don’t recognize him. He’s a bigger guy, thick neck, bald head. He’s dead too.
The smoke is so thick it’s hard for me to see much else. I have to imagine there are people in the back seat, but I can’t tell.
“We need to go,” Mack says. “Security will be on us soon. My guys at the gate are gone. I’ll get the truck.”
“Are they all dead?” Bella asks after Mack disappears around the corner.
“I’m pretty sure,” I cough, trying to clear the smoke from my throat. “I can’t see in the back seat. I know Blogis is dead.”
Bella throws her arms around me and buries her head in my chest. There’s no sobbing, no laughing, just a suffocating embrace. I place one hand on her head, the other around her back.
Maybe we’re finally free. Free.
Mack pulls up in a nondescript Ford F-150. Bella and I climb in and Mack pulls away, barreling through an exit as security descends upon the Escalade. Mack turns left onto Kirby Drive and hits the 610 Loop. He heads toward downtown, and from the rear passenger’s seat, looking to the left, I can see the emergency vehicles surrounding the dome.
“What a horrible way to die,” Bella says.
“They probably never knew what hit them,” I say.
“Where to?” Mack asks.
“We have tickets on Amtrak,” I tell him. “They’re prepaid with fake names and identification. Sleeping cabin. Once we’re on board, nobody has to see us. More private than a bus or a plane.”
“Where are you headed?” Mack looks at Bella. “Or is that a secret?”
“We can’t tell you, Mack,” she says. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
“Plausible deniability,” he nods. “I get it.”
“There’s money in an account for you,” I reach out and grab his shoulder. “It’s plenty for you to find a hiding place too.”
“Beaches,” he laughs, “without extradition. That’s where I’ll be headed. I’ve got a flight booked already and will be long gone before anyone connects me to any of this.”
Mack takes an exit to downtown and slows for a light when my phone rings.
“It’s an unknown number,” I hold the burner up for Bella to see it. Then I answer the call.
“Yes?”
“Jackson Quick, you are full of surprises.” The caller laughs a familiar laugh. “Was it SEMTEX? A plastic explosive? How did you trigger it, good man?”
Sir Spencer’s alive.
“You thought I was dead too?” He laughs again. “Oh, please. I didn’t get in that car. I knew something was wrong with those iPods. If I know you, and sometimes I question if I do, your intractable moral compass would never point you in the direction of betraying your convictions.”
“If you knew, then why did you let me leave? Why didn’t you fight?”
“Oh Jackson,” he sighs, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s when to cut ones losses.”
“Where are you?”
“On my way to Washington D.C.,” he answers. “I have a driver taking me to the airport. I have a meeting regarding some disagreements I have with the current administration. President Dexter Foreman is leading us down the wrong path, don’t you think?”
“You know Blogis is dead.”
“I assumed,” he says. “Corkscrew too. She had the other iPad. I told her to run diagnostics on it for me.”
“You knew they were rigged to explode?”
“No, I knew something was wrong, though. It’s a shame about poor Liho. He did love your mother and, in his own sick way, had a soft spot for you.”
“Sure.”
“That said, good man, I wish you the best of luck.”
“So what’s next?” I ask. “What do you want from me?”
“That’s up to you, Jackson. As I mentioned, I know when to move along. If there’s no process anymore, there’s nothing I can do about it now.”
“Seriously?”
“Trust me or don’t. I’ve much bigger fish to fry. New World Order and such.”
“So that’s it?” I don’t buy it.
“That’s it,” he pauses and then laughs in a way that raises the hair on my neck and produces goose bumps my arms. “Until it’s not.” And he hangs up.
That’s it. Until it’s not.
EPILOGUE: AFTER IMAGE
“The end is the beginning of all things.”
—Jiddu Krishnamurti
The scent of lavender fills our cozy room above the best pizza restaurant on the islands. There are bouquets of the purple flowers dotting our efficiency apartment. A grouping of dried stems hangs from the back of the front door, there’s a trio of fresh cut bunches in glass vases on the wood plank coffee table, and a fourth sits on a side table next to our slip-covered love seat. There’s not room for a sofa, and we like the lack of space between us on the cool nights that fill eight months of the year.
We are curled up on the loveseat, an alpaca blanket draped over us, and Bella is cheering on the Seahawks. They’re beating the 49ers by ten with about five minutes to go.
She grumbles at a Kaepernick third down conversion and I kiss her on the forehead. She rubs my thigh with her hand. This is our life now.
Bella, with her strawberry blonde pixie cut, makes weekly trips to a nearby lavender farm to cut the bouquets herself. She also buys the oils, soaps, and incense they sell at the farm. Those replace the flowers when it’s too cold on the island for the flowers to bloom.
San Juan Island is accessible only by ferry and an hour ride from Anacortes or two hours from Seattle.
Nobody here knows our real names. To them, we’re Quentin and Frannie Besson, a young married couple who telecommute and stay to ourselves. Both of us have done what we could to make ourselves less recognizable. Aside from drastically different haircuts, or lack of one in my case, I’ve added twenty pounds of muscle. It’s changed my facial structure, making my eyes and mouth appear larger. I’ve also grown a beard. Bella sometimes refers to me as Grizzly Adams. I joke with her I’m surprised she knows who he was and tell her I prefer the Brawny paper towel guy as a comparison.
The guys at the pizza place know us. The owners of the lavender farm know Bella. They even offered her a part time job. She thought about it but declined.
I occasionally clean charter boats for a company that takes tourists out for whale watching excursions. It keeps me busy, gives me purpose beyond Bella, and helps provide a sense of normalcy.
We’ve been here for more than two years, slowly building our lives. We’re as happy as is possible for two people who survived what we have. There’s too much pain underneath the surface for us to be blissful. But it’s close. We trust each other. We love each other. We’ve convinced ourselves that’s enough in this Spartan existence of ours. Though we both go a little stir crazy sometimes.
She’s been reading Jack Reacher and Mitch Rapp novels by the truckload. We’ve watched the Bourne Identity at least fifty times. I’ve tried my hand
at writing an action adventure novel. It’s not going well.
“You want a calzone?” she asks. “They close in an hour.”
“Sure,” I scratch my beard and grab my cell phone. I text Willie, the owner of the restaurant downstairs, and tell him I’ll be down in a half hour to pick up our usual. He’s one of three people on the island who has my number. The charter captain and Bella are the others.
He texts back immediately, telling me it’ll be ready. Then he texts again.
somebody is here 2 see u.
I pull the screen closer to my face and reread the short message.
SOMEBODY. IS. HERE. TO. SEE. YOU.
“Calzone will be ready in a minute,” I tell Bella, putting the phone on the side table next to the lavender. “Not sure I should get it, though.”
“Why?” Her eyes are on the TV. She’s probably half listening to me as San Francisco moves inside the Seahawk twenty yard line.
“Never mind,” I say and pick up my phone to text Willie.
who is it?
i don’t know. said he’s looking for quentin. said it’s important.
what’s he look like?
tall. thin. short hair. dark skin. big smile.
did u tell him u know me?
uh. yeah. why?
no reason. i just don’t know who he is.
want me to get a name?
no.
k. calzone going in oven now.
did u tell him where i live? Please say no.
no.
k. be down in a minute.
“Where are you going?” Bella’s eyes are still on the television. It’s 4th and five from the seven yard line. San Francisco’s going for it. “The game’s not over!”
She jumps up when Seattle stuffs a naked bootleg short of the first down. “Yes!” she points at the screen and pumps her fist. She’s become quite a football fan with not a lot else to do.
“Did you see that?” Strands of her bangs fall across her eyes. I still can’t get used to her blonde hair or the severity of the cut. She looks great. But sometimes she doesn’t seem like Bella.
“Yes, But I gotta go to the bathroom before I get the food.”
“Okay?!?” She looks at me as though I’ve got a third eye, then plops back down on the loveseat. She pulls the blanket over her legs. “I’ll be waiting right here for you, sexy Q.”
Sexy Q. Her endearing new nickname for me. Or Grizzly Adams.
I fake a laugh and walk to the bathroom as nonchalantly as possible. I close and lock the door behind me. Aside from the closet and the space behind the pony wall that separates our double bed from the rest of the apartment, the bathroom is the most private place in our apartment.
I get on my knees and run my hands along the edge of the wall behind the toilet until I feel a ridge. I dig my fingers behind the ridge and tug, revealing an opening for plumbing access. Just inside is a blue lock box. Somehow, despite all our misadventures, I managed to hold on to my sole belonging from childhood.
Elbow deep, I blindly grab for a large plastic bag and drag it through the opening and onto the bathroom floor.
In the clear, gallon-sized bag is my six-shooter and a box of shotshell. Aside from the double barrel shotgun Bella keeps under her side of the bed, this is the only weapon we have. It’s a grim but needed reminder of our past lives. They are lives, apparently, we won’t ever be able to leave behind.
I replace the plumbing access after stuffing the box and plastic bag into the space, and tuck the revolver into the of my back, hiding it under my plain gray sweatshirt. Bella’s watching the post-game interview with the Seahawk’s coach when I tell her goodbye and jaunt down the stairwell to the street and the restaurant below.
The pizza place is nearly empty, aside from a fisherman I recognize. I walk to the counter and stand next to the register, waiting for Willie to emerge from the kitchen with the best pepperoni and black olive calzone this side of Italy.
Instead, there’s a tap on my shoulder. I start to turn, my right hand moving to the revolver, and a man says below his breath, just behind my ear, “Don’t reach for the piece in your waistband. It’s not necessary.”
I stop and slowly spin to see a familiar face. I’ve never met the man, and I don’t remember his name. But I’ve seen him before. The ease of his smile is unforgettable.
“I’m Bernard Francis,” he says, extending his hand. “I’ve been looking for you for two years now.”
“I didn’t want to be found,” I don’t take his hand. “Willie!” I turn and call into the kitchen. Our large calzone is sitting atop the pizza oven. It’s got Quentin scribbled on the side of the box.
“Can we talk for a minute?” he slips his hands into his khaki pockets. He’s wearing a black golf windbreaker over a high, white turtleneck. “I came a long way to meet you.” It’s still not registering who he is.
“What do you want?” I’m craning to find Willie. He’s not answering. “What did you do with Willie?”
“I didn’t do anything with Willie,” he says, hands still in his pocket. “If you’re talking about the owner, he’s in the bathroom.”
As if on cue and over the man’s shoulder, Willie emerges from the unisex bathroom. He sees me and waves, then points to the visitor and mouths, “That’s him!” just as he turns around.
“So you know I’ve been looking for you, then?” he asks, turning back to look me in the eyes.
“Maybe,” I say, “but it doesn’t change anything. I’m not interested in what you’re selling.”
“Five minutes,” he pleads. “Then I’ll leave you alone.”
Willie passes us and snakes behind the counter to grab the calzone. He walks it to the register and sets it down. “No charge today, buddy,” he says. “It’s on me.”
I thank Willie, pick up the box, and turn to walk out. The visitor is still standing by the register when I turn around to butt push the door open. His hands in his pockets he doesn’t say anything until the nanosecond before the door closes. I’m already on the sidewalk when he calls out.
“What about Bella?”
Damn it!
Securing the calzone with one hand, I reopen the door and march back into the restaurant. Willie must sense my irritation. He moves swiftly into the kitchen, disappearing like a barkeep in a western right before the shootout.
“What about Bella?” I ask, knowing that pretending I don’t know what he’s talking about will only waste my time.
“I have a proposition for the two of you,” he says. “Five minutes.” His smile spreads across his face again and it hits me.
“I know you,” I wag my finger at him and walk toward him with less trepidation. “You’re the former FBI guy. I saw you on cable.”
He presses his lips together and nods. “That was me.”
“You defended me,” I remember. “I saw that.”
“I just read between the lines,” he says, guiding me toward a booth. “It never made sense to me that you were randomly violent.”
“I am violent,” I slide the calzone box onto the table and sit down across from him.
“Not randomly,” he shakes his head. “You were always concerned with self-preservation above all else. That was just my gut feeling.”
“So what do you want?” The calzone’s going to get cold.
“My colleagues and I believe you and Bella would make outstanding assets,” he pulls a card from his breast pocket and lays it on top of the box. “Outstanding.”
“I’ve been down this road before,” I wave him off. “No offense…”
“Bernard Francis.”
“No offense Mr. Francis, but we’re happy and safe hiding out here on the island,” I explain.
“Is that why you have a gun in the small of your back?” his smile returns.
“I’m
from Texas,” I remind him. “I have a gun.”
“Look,” he says, “I’m not going to go with the hard sell here. I know you’ve been through more than most. You’re just a regular guy with some extraordinary abilities.”
“I have extraordinary luck.”
“Whatever it is,” he lowers his voice, “you’re sitting here.”
“It’s luck,” I assure him.
“I’ll leave it as this, Jackson,” he’s speaking in a hushed tone as he leans in, no doubt smelling the goodness of the calzone. “We do a lot of work that’s off the books. We do the things the feds cannot or will not do. We’re good. We’re effective. We’re everywhere. We are the Halliburton of black ops.”
“I thought Halliburton was the Halliburton of black ops,” I chuckle.
“Just think about it,” he says and pushes himself out of the booth. “There’s no deadline. You’re always welcome.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve already wiped clean your considerably dirty slate,” he says. “Same for Bella. We can start fresh with new identities, ones far better than what your friend Wolodymyr can concoct.” He stands and offers me his hand. This time I take it.
Bernard Francis nods his head, smiles one more toothy grin, and turns to leave. He pushes his way through the door, turns right and disappears. My guess is he’ll catch the next ferry off of the island.
I pull the card from the table and read it.
BERNARD FRANCIS, LEAD ANALYST
WIGNOCK HOMELAND INTELLIGENCE GROUP
[email protected]
The card stock is super thick and I rub my thumb over the raised letters of his name. There’s no phone number and no address, only the email address. The backside of the card is blank. I stuff it in my pocket and pick up the calzone box.
“It’s clear!” I yell to Willie and head for the door. “Nobody died.”
The climb up the stairs to the apartment is agonizing, as much because I’m suddenly starving as it is because I’m not sure what to say to Bella.
