“Yes, yes, I’m sure they were, Mr. Bellamy,” he said evenly, though it was apparent that he wasn’t buying Nick’s claim. He nodded politely, then backed out of the room. The door closed quietly behind him.
“Damn!” Nick hissed and brushed the perspiration from his forehead. What was happening to him? Was he losing it, or had somebody drugged him last night at the bar? Either way, the day was a bad trip. A real bad trip.
Nick stood over Jimmy. His son was gaunt, sallow, and sleeping the peace of angels. The scar was fading in the skull concavity above his left temple where bone had met plastered wall. His brown hair was clean and meticulously combed, making it seem as if he had just laid down for a quick nap before baseball practice. The doctors kept him cocooned in a maze of lines and wires, but the monitors all displayed identical readouts every day, indicating no deterioration and no improvement in his condition. Seventeen months here, and nothing to show for it. No hugs. No sass. No pleading brown eyes. No infectious laughter. Nothing but silence.
Part of Nick was locked away inside his son’s body where hope was a flickering candle in the blackness. Although he didn’t want to acknowledge it, a part of him was dying with Jimmy.
Twenty minutes later, Doctor Wharton and his security chief burst into the room. The clinic owner was a short, stocky man with thinning red hair, a perpetually wrinkled forehead, and somber eyes staring out from wire-rimmed glasses. He was agitated.
“Mr. Bellamy, my security staff and I have completed a thorough search of the clinic and a review of all security video tapes from the past eight hours. No one matching your description has entered this facility.” He paused to catch his breath. “I realize that you are an FBI agent and all, but you have no right to waste my security staff’s precious time on a wild goose chase. From now on, if you see an intruder in here, even it’s a little green man, please take him into custody yourself!” Doctor Wharton pivoted and stomped away before Nick could react.
He slammed a fist into the bedpost, then quickly looked to see if he had disturbed Jimmy. Of course he hadn’t. His son was comatose. Taking a deep breath, he suppressed his rage and vented by tucking the coverlet neatly beneath his son’s chin. As he straightened, Neo Thompson’s resonant voice echoed in his mind.
This sounds like ghost work.
His anger subsided as he kissed Jimmy’s cool forehead. Although Neo’s remark was his typical wiseass, it was something to consider. It was a whole lot easier to bet on that possibility than the alternative.
That he was going insane!
Chapter 8
Nick burst from the sixth floor elevator at FBI headquarters, and marched past his coworkers lining the aisles between cubicles in Orion Sector. The central area was a labyrinth of eight-foot partitions. Glass-walled offices with blinds surrounded the labyrinth on three sides. Although the floor plan was more appropriate for a brokerage firm, the layout discouraged treasonous plots. Big Brother maintained a constant vigil.
“Coffee, and keep it coming,” Nick snapped at his secretary who sat wide-eyed outside his office door. Ethel Jurkowski looked like a clone of the former first lady, Barbara Bush. Despite the occasional teasing she endured about her silver-white hair, and matronly shape, Ethel maintained her sense of propriety that made her the best secretary in Orion Sector. That bothered the hell out of Nick’s supervisor, Ronald Withers, which pleased Nick no end.
“Looks like you pulled an all nighter,” she said, clicking her tongue with mild disapproval.
“Not even close,” he retorted with a dismissive wave of his hand. He slammed his office door and closed the blinds to the prying stares. His knees trembled, as he sank into the chair behind his desk.
His partner, Neo, arrived with Ethel and a pot of coffee. She filled his cup, and left it black as always. The black monolith closed the door after she retreated.
“Man, you’ve been the talk of the place,” Neo said flatly, as he slumped into the chair in front of Nick’s desk. His clean-shaven scalp reflected the glare of the overhead lights.
Nick folded his shaking hands. “Ask me if I care.”
“You’d better. The College Park cops jawed at Withers about the ruckus at your place this morning. They want your skinny, white ass for questioning. For that matter, so does the landlord,” he advised. “They even went so far as to threaten Withers if he didn’t cooperate.” He smiled. “That went over big.”
“Poor Ronny,” Nick said. He inhaled deeply, and lifted the coffee cup to his lips, concentrating on keeping it steady. He didn’t want Neo to know how badly his nerves were rattled.
“Your story about a beautiful woman appearing in your mirror, and the glass breaking and reassembling before your phone dialed itself, didn’t exactly inspire credibility with the crime scene boys.”
Nick drained the cup, then refilled it. “Your guys find anything at my place?”
Neo leaned back and clasped his massive hands together. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling, and Nick sensed his partner’s uneasiness. “Nothing,” he replied softly, then lightened. “Leon said he wouldn’t recommend you for the Good Housekeeping award.”
Neo’s lame attempt at humor missed its mark. “I see,” he said, but he didn’t. What was Neo holding back? And why?
“Looks like you either got into some bad booze or . . .”
“Yeah, I know. Or, I’ve got a ghost problem.”
“I’m bettin’ on the booze.”
“Me too.” Nick chugged the second cup like it was a shot of scotch. He needed a real drink. This morning’s pressure was eating away at his composure, and he felt like a volcano on the verge of eruption. “But that isn’t the half of it,” Nick said, and quickly described the events at the Wharton Clinic.
Neo rubbed his anvil chin, as his alert, obsidian eyes pierced Nick’s from pinched crevices in his enormously chiseled face. His sprawling arms pulled his muscled, six-foot-six frame closer to the desk.
“This is outa my league,” he said at last, through a meticulously clipped Van Dyke beard. “I only deal with psychos and terrorists.”
“I think it was him.”
He stiffened. “Your assassin?”
Nick nodded.
The silence was thick between them.
Neo sighed. “I think you’re paranoid, man.”
“Yeah, whatever you say.”
“Hey, I’m serious. Your assassin investigation is getting zero support from the brass these days. If I were you, I’d drop it. Move on. How about helping me investigate our assignment: Senator Danforth?”
“You want me to quit my investigation?”
“They want you to quit.”
Nick sighed. “Not a chance.”
Neo shrugged. “It’s your neck,” he warned.
“Yeah, it is.
“My advice. Get off the booze, and let go of your mysterious assassin.”
Nick stiffened. “Who are you, and what have you done with my partner?”
“Get serious, man.”
“I am serious.” Nick shook his head. Neo definitely wasn’t himself. “Withers got to you.”
“He climbed all over my ass about our lack of progress on the senator’s background report for the Justice Department. You know as well as I do that the senator can’t officially declare his candidacy for president without our FBI background check. I haven’t had the time to do it alone, and you’ve been missing in action around here lately.”
Nick massaged his throbbing temples. “Let ‘em wait.”
Neo shifted uncomfortably. “Hey, I got a wife and two kids, and I need this job. You’re steppin’ on some mighty big toes by blowing off the Danforth report.”
He shrugged. “If some psycho had murdered your wife and put your kids in a coma, I’ll bet we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Neo stood. “I’m leaving. You’re hopeless.”
Nick stood. “Did you mention Mortal Eclipse to Crow?”
Crow was Orion Sector’s computer whiz who was bot
h brilliant and eccentric. An American Indian, Crow was the only name listed in his personnel records, and he refused to divulge whether it was his first or last name. He boldly asserted that his Indian heritage was off limits to his natural enemy, the white man. After Nick’s wife’s murder, Nick became an outcast at the agency with his wild assassin theory, and Crow was the only one besides Neo at the Bureau who actually believed in the existence of the enigmatic assassin. They had bonded instantly.
Neo paused at the door without glancing back. “I told him.” He walked out as Ethyl entered.
As Nick watched Neo’s large frame negotiate the crowded aisles, his gut told him that his partner was lying. Why had Neo suddenly turned against him?
Ethyl cleared her throat to break Nick’s reverie. “Mr. Withers would like to see you immediately in Conference Room C,” she said loudly, then added in a whisper, “Bring your armor.”
Nick’s headache swelled, as he flashed her a phony grin. “Thanks for the tip,” he said, but had no clue to what her warning meant. Today began as a nightmare, and was getting worse by the minute. It was beyond his comprehension, which was atypical during his career with the Bureau. His razor mind was suddenly dull as dirt. And, last night’s booze certainly wasn’t helping matters.
He massaged his aching temples, and reached into the drawer for the extra-strength Tylenol. He swallowed two, and stared out his window at the Capitol dome. Even Neo had turned against him. What the hell were he and Withers cooking up now? Was Ronny really pissed about the ruckus at his apartment this morning, or was it something more serious? Like his obsession with the assassin. Well, he’d put that little pit bull in his place before, and he’d do it again. He was in no mood for an ass chewing today.
Withers stood at the head of the massive cherry table that ran the length of the vast Conference Room C, and greeted Nick with his perpetual scowl. Frank Bosman sat at the opposite end and acknowledged Nick with a smirk. That smirk intimated that this meeting was going to hell for Nick. Senior Agent Bosman was jealous of Nick’s quick rise in the Bureau, and was constantly looking for an opportunity to bring him down.Withers checked his watch impatiently, as if he were expecting others. “Have a seat, Nick,” he said tersely.
Nick scanned the twenty-odd, empty chairs, but didn’t sit. “Why are we meeting in here?” Nick asked. “We gonna toss a Frisbee around?”
Withers was about to reply, but abruptly closed his mouth as the door swung open. Orion Sector Chief Rance Osborne shuffled lamely to the head of the table, and dropped his briefcase on the glossy finish. Withers quickly stepped aside. Nick stubbornly remained standing. He was beginning to feel a bit like Custer at Little Big Horn.
“Good morning, Nick,” Osborne said in his raspy voice.
Nick nodded. He sensed trouble, and his gut proved accurate seconds later when his hostile brother-in-law, Bob Lawton, strode angrily into the room carrying a thick manila folder. Bob was a FBI supervisor in the San Francisco office, and blamed Nick for his sister’s gruesome murder. What the hell was he doing here?
Nick sat, waiting for the tomahawk to fall.
Chapter 9
Perspiration glistened on Nick’s forehead like morning dew, and despite the Tylenol in his system, the pounding at his temples persisted. The image of the ethereal woman from his dreams popped into his mind, beckoning him to slip into her outstretched arms. Nick blinked several times to dispel the vision, as the men sat crowded at the far end of the table. Them against him.
Rance Osborne looked anything but the head of a clandestine bureau division. His sharp facial lines, slicked-back silver hair, trim body, piercing brown eyes, and expensively tailored suit presented the appearance of a capable corporate CEO. Only the limp, caused by a sniper’s bullet to the kneecap during a Missoula, Montana night raid on a terrorist cult camp in the late ‘70’s suggested his actual profession. He was a no-nonsense man who disliked wasting time on trivialities and chitchat. His division meetings were highly structured, and didn’t allow time for topic deviations. Nick respected the man’s ethics, fairness, and ability to listen to all the facts before rendering a course of action.
Ron Withers wrung his damp hands, and then wiped the film from his Coke-bottle lenses, his eyes beyond owl-like. The fluorescent lights glared off his bald pate, as he looked down to smooth the wrinkles from his badly fitting, gray suit. Although he appeared confident, he was wary of Osborne, who might suddenly lay the blame for Bellamy’s peculiar behavior at his doorstep. It had happened before. Bellamy was known in certain circles around the Bureau as Osborne’s fair-haired boy.
Bob Lawton’s and Frank Bosman’s gazes were fixed on Nick like deadly laser beams, waiting patiently for Osborne to zoom in for the kill. They wanted to pick Nick’s bones until he was history. To both men, for different reasons, he was the enemy.
Rance Osborne placed his palms flat on the table, and leaned toward Nick. Ten feet of table separated them.
“I heard you had a rough start at home this morning,” he said casually.
Nick nodded.
“Well, that’s partly why we’re all here this morning.” He tugged at the left lapel of his gray suit. “But it isn’t the big picture.” He paused to let the allusion sink in. “Ronald, here, has informed me that you’ve been derelict in your duties.”
Nick opened his mouth to speak, but Osborne raised his hand and stopped him.
“Let me lay this all out before you object,” he warned. “You’re not on trial, Nick, although some of the facts I’ve read are quite damning.”
Nick’s mind scrambled to absorb Rance’s unexpected indictment, and last night’s booze binge was hindering the process. What damning facts? Nick smelled a rat. Three of them, to be precise.
Osborne coughed. “First, there’s the matter of clearing Senator Danforth, so he can begin campaigning for president. Ronald gave you and Neo the assignment two months ago, and to date, there is no sign of the report. In fact, Neo has been working on it alone, am I right?”
“Lately, yes.”
“And, Neo informed us that, during your preliminary research, you suspected the senator of certain improprieties concerning his past fund raising efforts. Is that also correct?”
“Yes, but let me explain the reason for my suspicion.”
“Go ahead, but keep it brief.”
Blood pounded in Nick’s ears as he spoke. “I traced his senatorial campaign contributions for the past twenty years, and a majority of them came from suspicious sources.”
Osborne raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Suspicious?”
“Yes. Many of the contributions came from dummy corporations and from fictitious employees of those corporations. When I did more digging, I discovered that the first dozen names on that list were, in fact, dummy corporations set-up for South American drug dealers. I haven’t checked the rest yet. I’ve been . . . busy.”
“That’s a serious accusation, Nick. Where’s your proof?”
“In the Danforth file folder.”
Osborne reached into his briefcase and removed a thick black folder. “Is this it?”
The headache threatened to split his skull, but Nick nodded painfully.
“There is nothing in this folder or your computer files that points to such an accusation. In fact, aren’t you making this up to cover your ass, because you have been negligent in your duties!” Osborne shouted, his eyes blazing at Nick.
“Let me check the file!” Nick retorted, as Osborne slid it down the polished cherry finish. After a cursory examination, Nick dropped it on the table. “My documentation is missing.”
Withers sneered. “Like hell,” he said beneath his breath, then shuddered as Osborne shot him a malevolent glance.
“Nick, you’re looking at what we found,” Osborne said simply.
The Orion Sector head paused to rub his temples, as if he were suffering from a headache, too. In fact, the other three men had done the same thing at least twice during the meeting. Was the flu going around
the office? Nick wondered.
“I’m extremely disappointed, Nick,” he continued, “but the report is being completed as we speak, so ‘no harm done’, as they say in political backwaters.”
“This is ridiculous,” Nick mumbled, hoping the meeting would end, so he and his spanked hand could find more Tylenol.
Osborne ignored the comment and removed a paper-clipped printout. He jabbed his index finger on the stack. It contained Nick’s investigative documentation on the elusive international assassin. “This is what you spent the better part of three years and two-hundred and thirty-eight thousand taxpayer dollars on, and for what? A dead-end. A pet theory of yours that has gone nowhere.”
Nick’s composure collapsed. His fist slammed tabletop. “That’s not true, and you damn well know it, Rance! There is an assassin out there. I’ve documented his kills, and uncovered evidence that substantiates his existence. He may move and kill like a phantom, but he is real!”
Withers, Lawton and Bosman shook their heads at his outburst, but Osborne remained calm.
“Let me continue, Nick.”
Nick leaped from his seat. “This is nothing but a goddammed inquisition!”
“SIT DOWN!” Osborne shouted.
Reluctantly, Nick slumped back into his chair.
“Now, as I was saying, this investigation of yours has been a waste of money and Bureau hours.” He raised the printout in the air, and shook it at Nick. “This, Nick, is the set-up. This is what you used to set-up the perfect alibis for murdering your wife. This is what got you off the hook.”
Nick was stunned.
“Tell us what you and Agent Lawton found, Bosman,” Osborn directed.
Special Agent Bosman cleared his throat. “During our year-long probe into the murder of Laura Bellamy, we discovered many curious discrepancies that contradicted Special Agent Bellamy’s presentation of the facts surrounding his wife’s murder and the critical injury to his son, James Allen.”
Mortal Eclipse Page 4
