by Ellis, T. W.
‘There’s that too. Leo, even though he works for me, for the Bureau, is not on our regular system. Standard security protocols in action in case of moles. Only a handful of people know he exists in this context. But I have alerts nonetheless, as I do with other informants. So, if people start asking questions about them, it flags. I notice. Nine times out of ten when this happens with an asset it’s entirely innocent. They’ve got themselves a parking ticket. Maybe a DUI.’
‘What about the other time?’
Carlson says, ‘That’s where things get prickly. Every once in a while someone is interested in an informant because they’re an informant. Now that someone might not know the asset in question works, or has worked, for the FBI, but the fact they’re interested in that asset poses a security risk, as I’m sure you can imagine. In that scenario it’s the duty of the agent responsible for the asset – in Leo’s case, me – to investigate those asking questions. What do they want to know? Why do they want to know it? What are the consequences of their questions? You get the idea. In the case of your husband, I’ve never had to deal with this situation before. So, I’m thorough. The request for information came from within the FBI, so I—’
‘You told me Wilks and Messer weren’t from the FBI.’
‘I did,’ Carlson says, ‘because that’s correct. But the request for information about Leo was from the FBI. My first thoughts were he was a suspect in a crime. A federal crime, naturally, given the FBI’s interest. But what I found was that there was no active investigation in which your husband was a person of interest or even a potential witness.’
‘What does that mean? I’m so confused.’
‘So was I. Very confused. Perplexed, even. I—’
‘The request was made by the FBI on someone else’s behalf,’ Trevor says.
Carlson nods. ‘That’s right. We need to call them the third party because I don’t know exactly who they are.’
I say, ‘And if you were to guess?’
‘I think what Wilks and Messer said to you when they came to your house could be the truth.’
I exhale for a long moment. ‘You’re saying that Leo really has evidence that could bring down a drug cartel?’
‘I’m saying it’s possible. I’m saying it would explain the direct involvement of Wilks and Messer. Some of these cartels have unparalleled levels of influence.’
‘Enough influence to convince the FBI to help them? That can’t be true.’
Trevor shrugs. ‘All it takes is one bad apple. Isn’t that right, Mr Agent Man?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Carlson agrees. ‘Much as I would like to believe no one working for the FBI could be bribed or coerced to supply information to a drug cartel, I just can’t say it’s impossible.’
Trevor huffs. ‘Federal government can’t ever be trusted.’
‘So let me get this straight,’ I say. ‘Leo’s been laundering money for a drug cartel, and that drug cartel used the FBI to find out information on him? What information?’
Carlson looks at me like it’s obvious. Maybe it is.
‘They must have been suspicious,’ he says. ‘Perhaps they thought they had a rat in their organisation and were fishing out wide and Leo was just one of many in the net, or they might have suspected him in particular for some other reason. Regardless, they used their sources to see what we had on Leo.’
‘Cue Wilks and Messer knocking on my door,’ I say.
Carlson nods. ‘That’s how it looks to me.’
‘God,’ I say. ‘And now at least one of them is dead, and the cartel are going to know for sure Leo has been betraying them.’
Carlson nods again. ‘I’m afraid so, Jem. But I’m going to do everything I can to keep you and Leo safe. I swear it.’
I say, ‘Thank you,’ but I don’t believe he can.
I don’t believe anyone can.
Endometriosis.
It’s a mouthful, right? A complicated word for a relatively simple-to-understand condition. The lining of my uterus doesn’t only grow in the uterus, but on my ovaries too. I have no outward symptoms, unlike many sufferers. I’ve rarely ever had what I would call a heavy period. No pain during sex. The only downside to it, and it’s a pretty major one, is that I can’t get pregnant.
When endometriosis affects different areas, such as tissue growing on the outside of the womb, then surgery can sometimes offer a solution.
In my case, there’s no treatment.
‘Now we know,’ Leo said that day on the sidewalk outside the doctor’s office. ‘Now we have an answer.’
‘What good is an answer without a solution?’
He said nothing.
Instead, he held me. He kissed the top of my head while my arms hung limp at my sides.
I heard the crinkle of paper because he was holding an inch-thick wad of leaflets about the condition, on how to cope, about support groups, about drugs, about surgery, about what to do next, about donors, about surrogates, about adoption. The doctor gave them to me but I couldn’t bring myself to take them. Leo did instead.
I thought then that I wouldn’t read them. What would be the point?
‘We still have options,’ Leo said. ‘This doesn’t have to be the end of the road.’
‘We had a plan,’ I said.
‘I know,’ he said.
‘We have the house,’ I said.
‘I know,’ he said.
It was a glorious, sunny afternoon. A magnificent blue sky dotted with cotton-wool clouds.
Why did it have to be such a perfect day? Why couldn’t it be freezing cold? Why couldn’t there be a rainstorm, or wind blowing so hard it stung my eyes?
That was the kind of day I wanted. Not this. Anything but this.
Pedestrians were walking back and forth. Some young, some old. Everything in between. My gaze was drawn to families, to mothers and fathers with children. I looked to couples holding hands and imagined them in the future plastering their social media accounts with the announcement of their first child to a barrage of likes.
I hated them.
I’d never hated anyone so much.
I was wrong. There was someone I hated more.
‘My immune system,’ I said, voicing my thoughts. ‘Of all the reasons … I’ve caused this. It’s me turning against me.’
Leo said, ‘It’s not your fault. You know that, right? You can’t think of this as something that is your own fault.’
‘How can I not, Leo? How can I not?’
He didn’t answer.
‘It’s a three-bedroom house,’ I said. ‘Three.’
‘I know.’
‘We don’t need all that space just for the two of us.’
‘We make one an office. One becomes the spare room.’
‘Spare room?’ There was more sarcasm in my voice than I was proud of. ‘Who exactly is going to come to stay with us?’
‘Making friends is part of the plan.’
‘The plan,’ I told him, ‘is over.’
‘One part of the plan,’ he said. ‘One setback. A significant one, obviously. But everything else is the same, isn’t it? We still have each other. That’s all we started with. That’s all we’ve had so far. It’s been enough, hasn’t it?’
‘Until you replace me with a woman who can actually function like one.’
Even under my unfair provocation he remained calm. Even when I was challenging him, he only cared about me.
To my shame I didn’t for a second think about how it was affecting him.
‘That’s not going to happen,’ he said. ‘We’re a team.’
He always said the right thing. Maybe he always knew what I wanted to hear. It could have been that he understood me better than I did myself, or perhaps he would say the right thing because he was such a kind, decent human being. But I still didn’t believe him. I didn’t know it then but all the stress of failing to conceive had been filling up my capacity to handle it and now there was no doubt it was my fault we couldn’t have a b
aby the limit had been reached and exceeded.
But even without this threshold crossed, I didn’t believe his reassurances. They were just words.
I knew at that moment he would one day leave me.
The only question was: when?
6:13 p.m.
I spend a while taking in what’s been told to me. Leo: sommelier, money launderer and informant. I can’t deny the plausibility of this explanation but I’m not ready to believe it wholesale. Not without proof. This is all conjecture at this stage. Wilks and Messer didn’t just turn up and shoot me. They could have done. I could easily be dead right now but they were asking me questions. They were talking about information.
‘What did Wilks and Messer want?’ I ask. ‘What information were they trying to find?’
‘Proof,’ Trevor says. ‘Isn’t that right, Mr Agent Man?’
Carlson nods, albeit with some reluctance. ‘And I’m guessing any evidence Leo had collected on the cartel that could hurt them.’
Trevor and Carlson talk for a while and I’m silent. I’m listening, then I’m not hearing them at all. I’m not processing anything, I’m not coming to terms with anything. I’m numb. I’m just so numb. Despite all that has happened I guess I was hoping it was some kind of mistake. Something that could be explained away, resolved. Fixed.
I can’t see any way out for me, for Leo.
For us.
I say, ‘We need to find Leo. I don’t know how but we have to before he gets back to the house looking for me.’
‘He won’t,’ Carlson says.
This enrages me. ‘Of course he will. He’s my husband. He thinks I’m danger.’
‘If he does then he’ll be smart about it. He won’t put himself at needless risk. I’ve worked with him for a long time. He knows how to stay safe.’
Needless risk … I try to let it go. ‘Then what do we do?’
‘We can’t do anything tonight except keep our heads down. Leo will do the same. We all lie low and attempt to sync up tomorrow. Then, I’ll bring him in and keep him safe. You too.’
The thought of waiting a whole night before I can see Leo again is devastating. Trevor sees the absolute sense of hopelessness in my face.
‘How’s about some coffee?’ he suggests. ‘Don’t know about you two, but I could use a cup.’
I don’t like coffee but I still want some.
Carlson says, ‘Yeah, why not?’
Trevor nods at Carlson, only he doesn’t get out of his chair.
Carlson gets the hint. ‘You want me to make it?’
Trevor shrugs. ‘That depends on whether you think it’s decent to take a man’s hospitality and contribute nothing in return. Unless, that is, you’re of the belief that—’
Carlson stands. ‘I’ll make it.’
‘See,’ Trevor says, ‘I knew you weren’t as ill-mannered as you’re apt to make out.’
Carlson is rolling his eyes as he trudges off to the kitchen area of the cabin. Trevor winks at me. He enjoys tormenting Carlson far too much, and even though I’ve too much to think about to find it all that funny, Trevor’s schoolboy humour, coming from an old man, has a certain infectious charm about it.
Carlson looks lost as he tries to find a drip machine.
Trevor shakes his head and stands. ‘Park your ass down, Mr Agent Man. I’m not trusting a Fed to make coffee.’
Carlson drops back down on the sofa next to me and whispers, ‘Of all the people you had to know … ’
Merlin opens one eye to growl at Carlson, as if he understood every word.
I say, ‘He’s a sweetheart. If it weren’t for him I would already be dead.’
When Trevor returns with the coffee he’s carrying three enamel mugs. He hands one to me and I thank him. He then places the second one down for Carlson on the coffee table at the furthest possible point so Carlson has to sit forward and reach out to take it.
Merlin growls again as Carlson’s hand nears him.
‘That’s because he can smell weakness,’ Trevor says, sitting back in his chair. ‘He growls at threats, naturally, but he really growls at the weak. He’s letting you know exactly what he thinks of you. He’s letting you know you’re for his belly just as soon as he decides it’s dinner time.’
Merlin is the size of a breadbin.
Carlson says, ‘I think I’ll be okay.’
‘Thing about a small dog,’ Trevor continues, ‘is that you underestimate them. You’re not scared of them like you should be because you think he can’t really hurt you that bad if he bites you. Well, that’s not the real issue, is it? It’s the fact that when he bites you he don’t let go. Then what? You can’t prise his jaws open because they’re a vice, so you try hitting him, right? Which brings us back round to my original statement. You underestimate the small dog because he’s small. Now you’re finding out that small dog is all muscle and bone. There ain’t no fleshy parts to him. Everywhere you hit you’re hurting your hand a damn sight more than it’s hurting him. You’re just wearing yourself out, getting tired, making the wound worse. Then where are you? You’ve burned precious energy, precious hydration. And that little dog just keeps on holding and all the while he’s getting fluids on account of your blood leaking out of you and into his mouth. And that wound ain’t closing. How long before it gets infected? How long before you got sepsis?’ Trevor sits back, finished. ‘Don’t underestimate the small dog.’
I exhale. ‘I bet you were great fun at parties, Trevor.’
He shoots me a look. ‘I was a riot, I assure you. I could tell you stories that would turn your hair white.’
‘I believe you,’ I say. ‘But maybe another time.’
‘For the best. Reminiscing is a dangerous pastime. Before you know it, you’re—’ He stops himself. He shakes his head, deciding against continuing with whatever thought process he was voicing. He takes a glug of coffee.
Carlson, mug now in hand, goes to do the same. ‘Sweetened with rat poison, I suppose?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Trevor says back. Then, as Carlson is about to drink, ‘Battery acid.’
Carlson looks him dead in the eye and sips.
‘Finally,’ Trevor says, ‘some backbone.’
I cough after swallowing some. ‘You could clean engines with that.’
Trevor is pleased. ‘Thank you.’
‘Will Leo go to prison?’ I ask.
Carlson rocks his head from side to side. ‘I really wouldn’t want to say.’
‘Try.’
‘His deal as my informant only goes so far. If he’s willingly committed other crimes without my knowledge then he could face charges.’
‘Why do you say it like that? There’s no “if”. Of course he hasn’t. They’ll have forced him from the start. He would never do anything illegal willingly, let alone work for a cartel. There’s an explanation for all of this. I know there is.’ After a short pause I ask, ‘How do I get out of this mess? How do I get Leo out of it?’
Carlson doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know. Trevor is also out of suggestions. I stare into the enamel mug, into the coffee.
‘The only thing I can tell you with any certainty,’ Carlson says after a long silence, ‘is that until we find out how deep the conspiracy goes, I’m afraid we’re entirely on our own.’
6:21 p.m.
Trevor insists on making us some food, which he prepares by heating up three tins of beans on his stove and adding some kind of meat chunks to those beans. He doesn’t explain where the meat has come from and I figure it’s better not to ask. I can only manage a couple of mouthfuls because my stomach is sore from when Messer punched me and even a little food makes me nauseous. Trevor isn’t offended. He gives my leftovers to Merlin, who makes short work of them. When the little dog’s finished, the plate looks clean enough to eat off.
It’s not late, but after dinner Trevor announces it’s time for bed. Carlson is still hurt and worn out from his fight with Wilks and falls asleep on the sofa. I’m not sure if this wa
s his intention or not but I can’t blame him for being exhausted.
I move off the sofa to give him more room and settle into Trevor’s chair. I’ve felt drained in one way or another for the last nine hours yet I’m not tired so it’s no surprise when Carlson is snoring away yet I’m staring at the ceiling.
Trevor tries to sneak back downstairs not long after he climbed up to his mezzanine bedroom. I hear him do his best to be silent but fail miserably, knocking into furniture and books on his way to the refrigerator, his footsteps audible. I appreciate his efforts not to wake me and don’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.
After the pit stop in the kitchen, he heads outside.
I give it a couple of minutes and follow.
I find Trevor on the porch. He’s sipping from a can of beer, looking out to the trees and the bright silver moonlight streaming through the foliage.
‘Beautiful,’ I say as I join him.
He nods. Sips.
‘Thank you again for sheltering us.’
He nods. Sips.
His silence makes me feel awkward. I guess he wants to be left alone so I retreat back towards the front door.
I’m about to push it open when I hear him say, ‘You shouldn’t trust him.’
I turn back. ‘Carlson?’
Trevor nods. Sips.
I shake my head. ‘I should have trusted him outside the police precinct. I could have skipped the headaches from getting beaten half to death.’ I step closer. ‘Carlson saved my life.’
‘But why did he?’
‘Because Wilks and Messer were trying to kill me. He intervened. What’s with you?’
Trevor exhales. ‘I’m just thinking out loud here.’
‘You’re free to speak your mind, Trevor. Especially on your own property. Especially when you’re providing me with a roof over my head.’
Trevor takes a moment to gather his thoughts and find the right words to express them. He fails. He shrugs and shakes his head.
‘Go on,’ I assure him. ‘I want to hear what you have to say. I’ll tell you now, though, whatever it is I think you’re wrong. Dead wrong. If it wasn’t for Carlson I’d be a corpse right now, strangled and beaten to death in my own bathroom. It’s as simple as that.’
