Two in the Head

by Eric Beetner

  Where’s the backup, right? The SWAT teams, the helicopters and tactical assault units alerted by a shootout in a government building? They wouldn’t be joining us this morning.

  After 9/11, when the whole country got paranoid, every office like ours was retrofitted with the latest in bunker mentality design. Our building was made to withstand a dirty nuke attack, so they said. The walls were extra thick, the windows both bullet proof and sound proof. Did you know with a good parabolic microphone you can aim it at a window and using the sound vibrations moving the glass you can eavesdrop on a conversation?

  Normally, that’s true. Not in our building. No crafty Al Qaeda spooks are gonna listen in on us. The downside is you could, “literally fire a gun in here and no one outside would ever hear it,” they said at the big post-install meeting.

  Sam’s massacre would go unnoticed.

  She kicked in the door to the bathroom. I cowered on the floor, gripping tight to the pedestal sink.

  “You can come out now. I’m all done here.”

  She knelt down to my level, examining my face like her own reflection in a mirror, but the mirror had warped. You know your own face but something is different. I saw myself through her eyes—pitiful, weak, vulnerable.

  “My God, you really are pathetic.” Cranner’s blood streaked over her face like when we were six and we got into Mom’s lipstick for the first time.

  She stood. Was she now remembering the same happy childhood thought? I held my embrace of the sink as she ran the water. I felt the cool hit my skin as she rinsed the blood off her face. She patted dry with one of the hand towels embroidered with the UT Longhorns logo.

  “We should have done this years ago,” she said and turned to leave the bathroom.

  “Don’t kill Lucas,” I squeaked out.

  She turned back to me. “What? Speak up.”

  “Don’t kill Lucas. I love him. And if I love him, you love him.”

  “I don’t love anything.”

  “Director Cranner?” came a timid voice.

  She spun to the door and fired a round through the forehead of Felton or Feldman or whatever his name was. A field agent who only came to the office one day a month. I watched him through her eyes as he fell hard to his knees and then slumped over backward, laying out over Moskin’s legs.

  One day a month and this had to be the day.

  Blake! Shit, Blake better be on assignment today. I scrambled my thoughts as best I could to keep his name out of her head. Song lyrics, scenes from movies, a grocery list, a random memory of a guy in very tight bike shorts the last time I was in Starbucks. I spun a radio dial in my brain and let the knob roll along as fast as it could.

  She flicked a switch on the side of her gun and the empty clip fell to the carpet. She let the gun fall with it and took the extra pistol out of her waistband.

  “I’ll say hi to him for you,” she said. But did she mean Lucas or Blake?

  THE OTHER MAN IN MY LIFE

  Blake and I came to the DEA at the same time. I was the hot shot, he was the stable, steady up and comer. He rocketed straight to the middle and found his orbit, gently circling in a holding pattern for the rest of his career.

  Also, Blake wanted to fuck me. Really he wanted to marry me, that was more Blake’s speed and exactly why he didn’t get laid very often. He carried a torch and no matter how many times I tried to throw water on it, he never got the hint. So we settled into the friend zone the same way he settled in to a boring career.

  Blake spent most of his time working undercover. He was exactly the type to put on an assignment lasting three years and consist mostly of him trying to rise through the ranks of illegal drug cartel accounting. Ooooh exciting!

  But, he remained my best friend in the office and someone I knew I could trust, and those were in short supply.

  First I needed to see if he was in the office, which meant touring the battlefield.

  The entire floor stank of gunpowder and burning hair. The place was eerily still, the hum of the air conditioning sounded like a 747 when the usual chatter and people sounds were gone.

  I went the long way around the reception desk trying hard not to look down at Rachel and Greene’s bodies, though I swore I could smell their fresh blood still dripping from their wounds.

  The bullpen was the worst photo of a post-Iraqi bomb blast you’ve ever seen. The rapid fire and huge shells of the assault rifle spread indiscriminate destruction across the rows of desks. Computer monitors were blown, files folders spilled their contents around like even more guts, as if what gushed out of the people wasn’t enough.

  The people. A long list of last names all cut down, bleeding from head wounds, chest wounds and torn arteries. Some of the men held their service pistols in their hands. They’d tried to defend themselves, but were no match for a woman with no conscience. She’d slaughtered them. There’s no other way to describe it. I’ve seen hits by rival drug gangs and this put them to shame. Three bodies, four? Ha! I counted twelve, fourteen if you added the two by reception and seventeen if you counted the three in Cranner’s office.

  I looked up to the video cameras in every corner of the room like a Las Vegas casino floor. Darkened orbs of glass trying and failing to look inconspicuous. And every inch of tape had my face on it.

  I put the thought out of my head and focused on the good news—no Blake.

  I remembered back to what Sam said about saying hi to him. I assumed she had no secret way of finding Lucas I didn’t know about so chances are she was talking about Blake.

  With my eyes shut I saw blackness. Out of range. I should have been relieved. Could have used some of that blissful blankness a while ago, but it also meant I had no idea where she was headed.

  It also meant I could think without fear of her tapping into my thoughts. I could finally call someone to warn them. I’d call Blake and then take the keys to one of the company cars. It wasn’t stealing if I took it in the line of duty and keeping your last remaining team member alive qualified. A row of seldom used Lincoln town cars were parked in the underground lot and the keys were all in the munitions locker downstairs which I knew was unattended.

  Dammit. Adam. Make that eighteen.

  HANGIN’ ON THE TELEPHONE

  I called Blake’s cell. This was gonna be awkward.

  “Agent Mansfield.”

  “Blake, it’s Samantha.”

  “Oh, hey Sam. What’s up?”

  How the hell to answer that one?

  “Well, first I need to know if you’ve already spoken with me today.”

  “What?”

  “Did I call you recently?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Nothing. Are you at work yet?”

  “Just getting ready to leave. What’s going on?”

  If he was at home then Sam knew where to find him. I needed to get him out of there. I went to the protocol of extracting an informant whose cover has been blown.

  “I need you to get out of there Blake. What’s your safe destination A?”

  “Sam, why isn’t Cranner calling me on this? You’re not my superior.”

  “Blake, this is Gamma Omega. I need you to get to your secure location A, but I also need you to tell me where that is.” The line went silent except for his breathing. “Blake?”

  “Is this a joke, Sam?”

  “No.” Gamma Omega. G.O. for Get Out. Go. Sometimes being direct is more important than being clever, even in code work.

  “You know it’s not protocol for me to tell you that location over the phone. Is someone with you?”

  Blake, bless his heart, was all about procedure. He knew if someone held a gun to my head, using me to get to him, his instructions were not to reveal any locations of any safe houses. Protocol is to let me get shot in the head before giving anything away. And if it was anyone else calling him…

  “Blake, I understand. I can’t ask you to reveal that information.” Damn proc
edures. My new brain was a slave to them. “For your safety I need you to get out. So I can help you I should know where to meet you, but it’s up to you to give me that information of your own free will. No one is here with me, but someone is coming for you. Look, this is me. You know when I’m lying. I might as well tell you I hate Bruce Springsteen.”

  Our little code. I really did hate Bruce, but if I said that it meant I was really telling the truth. The stupid things you come up with on a three day stakeout.

  He gave me the address and rushed off the phone.

  NOT—SO—SAFE HOUSE

  The DEA car with the government plates wasn’t quite as inconspicuous as the Vespa, but it made me feel like an agent on the case again instead and I didn’t have to deal with a helmet. I did have to move the scooter out of my two hour spot and into a 24-hour parking garage and slipped the ticket in my wallet for my future requisition form.

  The address Blake gave brought me to a one-bedroom apartment in a bad part of town. The safe houses, and they call them that but there’s nothing inherently safe about them other than the fact that people aren’t supposed to know about them, they all look like this place. Cheap, utilitarian apartments meant for a one or two night stay only in an emergency. Rent is paid on time and a cleaning crew is sent in once a month to maintain the spaces and sweep for bugs—electronic and otherwise.

  Blake answered the door and I could see the stress cutting lines in his face. He held his sidearm down by his waist, first time I’d ever seen him hold a gun since academy.

  “Sam, what is going on?” He pulled me inside and took a quick survey of the world outside his door to make sure I wasn’t followed. Frantic as he acted, I’m sure he saw nothing but a blur of street signs, taco stands and the abandoned car wash across the street.

  “Thanks for listening to me on the phone.”

  “I know you wouldn’t bullshit me, Sam.”

  “Do me a favor, call me Samantha. Don’t ask why, long story.”

  “Okay.” He holstered his gun but kept it on his hip. Somehow it did not make me feel any safer.

  “So I’ll see if I can explain this, but I doubt I can.” I sat on the edge of the bed. Blake stood. I could see in his feet he wanted to pace, but tried to keep calm for my sake. “Calder and Rizzo have hired someone to delete all evidence of the case against them.”

  “What does that mean, delete?”

  Blake looked more handsome than I’d ever seen him with a little concern on his face. His tan pleated pants and tucked-in button down still gave away his true nerd nature but there lurked a junior Jack Bauer underneath it all that I was happy to see.

  “It’s all-out war, Blake. They took out the office. Everyone. Dead.”

  Blake sank into the one chair, a lumpy swivel chair with pilled upholstery in a mustard yellow. “Dead?”

  “Yeah. It’s ugly.”

  “Hamilton is on vacation.”

  I had to think for a minute. Hamilton was a grey-haired agent popular with everyone in the office for his years of experience and great Halloween parties. I sighed relief, glad he chose this week to go to Cabo. Worst he can expect is a sunburn.

  “The point is, they’re after the whole case. That means Lucas.” A sore subject and Blake flinched a little at his name. “Blake, they went to his house and tried to kill him. They burned it down.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “Yeah. He made it out but I don’t know where he is. I need you to go find him and help him protect the case files. They can’t get away with this. It’s time those two were brought to justice.”

  Christ, the alien in my head talked like Captain America.

  “If you don’t know where he is, how am I supposed to find out?”

  “You’re a highly trained agent. Use it.”

  “And why can’t you go find him yourself?”

  “I’m going to try to stop the shooter.”

  “Who is the shooter?”

  I looked away. “It’s…complicated.” Nice. Reduce my mind warp predicament of the last twenty-four hours to a Facebook relationship status.

  Blake sighed deeply. “Sam,” he caught himself. “Samantha, if you say it needs doing then I’ll do it. I wish I knew exactly what I was walking in to though. If you say someone is shooting up and entire DEA office, these are not guys I really want to run across.”

  “It’s not a guy.” I smirked to myself. Blake didn’t get my inside joke.

  “Who isn’t?”

  I scooted down the bed to the edge, close enough so I could take his hand in mine. Over the years I’d done some shitty things, chief among them is being on the payroll for Calder and Rizzo. In the top ten is my constant exploitation of Blake’s feelings for me. Every time I did it for some idiotic favor I would promise myself to make it the last time I’d take advantage of his obedience.

  Right then, in the mildew scented safe house, one more time wouldn’t hurt.

  “Blake,” I said, staring into his eyes. “I need to explain one more thing for you and Lucas to be safe. You need to know who you can trust, and who you can’t.”

  “Okay. So tell me.” He gripped my hand.

  “It’s easier if I show you.”

  THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

  He followed me in his car, then a block away from the DEA offices I parked in the same garage as the minivan and got into his car. He still had his I.D. and since the parking lot was secure, we wouldn’t have to go through lobby security. We could head straight up to the slaughterhouse.

  The scene had somehow become eerier than before. The A/C kicked off and all the miscellaneous papers, settling debris and final death throes of the people stopped. The place still smelled like the kill room of a dog pound.

  I warned Blake it would be ugly, but right when the elevator doors slid open we found ourselves staring at the dead bodies of two women we both knew. I thought Blake wasn’t going to get out of the elevator. When he did he stepped across the carpet like a field of hot coals.

  I planned to keep him out of the bullpen but he wanted to see his desk. Far off in a corner he kept a neat workspace that amounted to little more than a depository for paperwork and his brass nameplate. He only made office visits once a month, kept no photos in frames or even a Dilbert cartoon up on the wall.

  Getting to the far end of the office became a bleak walk through the killing fields of the Khmer Rouge. Because the room was so quiet, we stayed quiet. Respect or fear, either way it kept us reverentially silent.

  Walking behind Blake I tried again to shut my eyes briefly and get a signal from Sam, but all that came through were dim flashes and broken audio. I started to really wonder where the hell she’d gone and if she was closing in on Lucas. I needed to explain the rest to Blake and get him on the case of finding my fiancé.

  “I need you to see the tapes, Blake.”

  “Jesus Christ.” He surveyed the carnage around him with awe. “I mean you said it was bad but…I didn’t think it would be like this.”

  The bodies of Beckett and Schwartz, Blake’s closest desk mates, leaned against the window, sitting up with twin head shots leaving a spray of brain behind them to decorate the Venetian blinds. A long streak of blood, now gone rust colored in the hour since the massacre, led around the corner and into the hall leading to the bathrooms. While Blake took in the ruin of his formerly spare but organized desk, I peered around the corner to see Torello, a female agent, who had crawled a good twenty feet on her belly leaving the wide streak of blood before dying mere feet from the bathroom door. What good making it inside would have done her I’m not so sure.

  “Who the hell did this? How many were there?”

  He didn’t help my nervousness about having to finally tell someone the truth. “Just come with me.”

  I took him back through the war zone to Cranner’s office. Blake couldn’t believe it when he saw Cranner’s body laid out. The man seemed indestructible to all of us. Turns out all it took
was a skinny girl from Texas with all the good drained out of her and replaced with a black heart of evil.

  “Seriously, we need to take this to the top. Washington. Homeland security. This is a fucking annihilation.”

  “We can’t take it to Washington.”

  “Why not?”

  “Watch.”

  I pointed him to Cranner’s bank of video monitors and re-racked the tapes. Seeing it in reverse came off as both comical and hopeful. Like a pre-school at the end of nap time, everyone standing up and getting back to work.

  I found the moment when Sam emerged from the elevators and pressed play. I made sure Blake looked me in the eye. “It’s not me.”

  He didn’t know what I meant yet and crinkled his brow then turned to the screens. I watched his face, not the playback. His looks of horror were bad enough. I noticed him edging away from me a tiny bit.

  “It’s not me,” I repeated. I knew he’d seen enough to get the point so I fast forwarded to when I arrived. The center monitor showed me getting off the elevator. Same outfit I still wore. While at the same time, the upper right monitor showed Sam on the hunt for anyone still standing. “See?” I said, pointing to my image.

  In the upper right, agent Greene came out from behind her desk and dashed for the elevators. Sam stood straight and brought the rifle to her eye. Greene moved from the upper right angle to a monitor in the middle row on the left showing the reception desk. The rifle jerked in one screen and Greene’s head exploded in the other.

  The show I starred in showed me turn and race down the hall to where we stood. I pressed pause. Two of me froze in the grid of nine.

  Blake couldn’t find the words. “How?” he finally managed.

  “I have no idea. There was an explosion and when I came to, she was there.”

  I did my best to explain how I felt like I could do nothing wrong and how it seemed she could do nothing but bad. How I could sometimes see what she sees. How she was after Lucas to kill him and stop the case against Calder and Rizzo.