Cold Spectrum

by Craig Schaefer

  “Get out of the fucking car,” I told her.

  I heard her wrestling with her wheelchair on the other side of the SUV. I didn’t help her. I popped the gas lid. After a minute or so, she rolled around the back of the car, looking up at me with a question in her eyes.

  “I may be about to raise my voice,” I told her, “and I didn’t want to wake up Jessie and Kevin.”

  She stared at me, holding her pensive silence.

  “I had a conversation with Jessie once,” I said. “About you and this team. She said the only reason Linder made her the team leader is because she’s half-feral. That in a kill-or-die moment, she kills without hesitation, and that’s what Linder values most. She said you could lead this team. She said you usually pretty much do. She said you could do it from a cell phone, three states away from the action, if you had to. I agreed with her.”

  I hit the “Unleaded” button and squeezed the pump handle. The crisp night air carried the faint tang of spilled gasoline.

  “When I say you’re inspirational, that’s what I mean. You. Dr. Cassidy, the profiler I wrote papers about in college. Jesus, I don’t know if you’re even aware of this, but I wrote you fan mail once. I didn’t think we’d ever meet in person. Now? I’ve literally trusted you with my life more than once—with all of our lives—and you’ve never let us down.” I looked over at her. “This isn’t about your meds. It isn’t about the wheelchair. It’s about Mikki.”

  She rolled back an inch and looked away. Off toward the empty highway.

  “You’re right, and you’re wrong. This isn’t something I normally talk about. Not when Jessie’s around.”

  “Because she was . . . responsible,” I said. “For what happened to you.”

  April nodded. “She was another person then. Raised by a monster. Brainwashed. I’ve never blamed her for what she did to me, but I know she still carries the guilt. So we don’t discuss it. Harmony, before that night . . . I climbed mountains. I competed in triathlons. Then, in one instant, one swing of an ax, all of that went away forever. It wasn’t just a matter of acclimating to the chair. I had to change my life, my pursuits, but I never lost the drive to excel. To contribute. I had to find ways—mostly cerebral, now—of making a difference in the world.”

  “And you’ve done that, haven’t you?”

  “Not enough. Not enough to satisfy me. When Linder spoke to me about rehabilitating Mikki, turning her into an asset, he knew exactly how to stroke my ego. Reminding me what a stellar job I did with Jessie. I should have stopped him right then and there.”

  “Not really the same thing,” I said.

  “No.” April frowned at the memory. “Jessie was raised by a psychopath. Mikki is one. But if I succeeded, if I refined a technique to draw some good from the most evil among us . . . Well, that’s a moot point, isn’t it? Because I failed. I failed, and innocent people died. Tonight, more died. And every one of those victims can be traced back to my doorstep. I didn’t set her loose, but I certainly gave someone the idea.”

  The pump clicked, and the digital numbers froze.

  April pursed her lips.

  “It feels like I’m being mocked,” she murmured.

  I tilted my head at her. “How do you mean?”

  “Anyone over Linder’s head—the tiny handful of politicians and insiders behind Vigilant Lock—certainly knew the details of the case. They’d know about the first attempt to turn Mikki, how she faked her death and fled. They’d know the facts of the Red Knight incident, how she ended up working with Roman Steranko and Bobby Diehl. You know the old saw about the definition of insanity, right?”

  “Doing the same thing over and over, expecting something different to happen?”

  April took off her bifocals, wiping her blouse against a tiny smudge.

  “Our masters in Washington may be cold, they may be ruthless, but they are not, to my knowledge, insane.” April slipped her glasses back on. “I can see only one operational goal behind bringing Mikki into the field. To rattle us. And me, personally. Rattle us into making a critical mistake, or at least demoralize us. It’s a calculated psychological attack.”

  “So they are after us. They didn’t just free Mikki to go after the Cold Spectrum survivors—either now or later, we’re on the menu, too.”

  “Indeed,” April said. “We need more information. I want to see the face of our true enemy. Then we can formulate a plan to turn the tables.”

  I smiled. Her eyes were still hard and cold, but I could see the gears turning beneath the glacial ice.

  “And that’s what I mean. Right there. You were one of the best profilers in Bureau history. When it comes to data analysis, tactics, finding patterns under the chaos—you’re ferocious. And that’s what you bring to the team. Me and Jessie can do the heavy lifting.” I tapped the side of my head. “We need your brain, and we need it now, because we’ve never been in trouble like this. We can’t find the way out of these woods without your help.”

  I holstered the pump and turned the gas cap.

  April nodded. Deep in thought, she turned her chair and rolled around the back of the car. Then she paused, coming back into sight.

  “Harmony?”

  I glanced her way. “Yeah?”

  “I still have the letter you wrote me.”

  I laughed, feeling a twinge of embarrassment. “God, I was young. Whole other life.”

  “I honestly can’t recall why I never replied. I believe I was on the lecture circuit then. Time slipped away from me. As it does.”

  “I didn’t expect you to write back,” I told her.

  “I only mention this because I do remember what I thought when I read it. I said to myself, ‘Someday, April, this young lady is going to make a fine agent.’” She tapped her finger against her chin, eyeing me. “I’m glad I was right about that much.”

  We got back on the highway. Danger on our heels, and somewhere up ahead, somewhere too far for our headlights to reach, one shot at finding the truth.

  Too far for our headlights, but dawn was on the way.

  TEN

  We drove through the day and into the late afternoon. Kevin was behind the wheel by the time we rolled into Des Allemands, a sleepy town nestled in lush green and split on both sides of the bayou. Three bridges straddled the murky waters.

  Louisiana took no notice of the fall: it was seventy-six degrees and sluggish, with a scent on the air like salt and some exotic, minty moss. As we crossed to the east bank, slowing down to scope out the street, the wind shifted and brought us the simmering aroma of catfish on an open grill.

  “Don’t know about you three,” Jessie said, “but I could murder a plate or two of fish right now. How about we find someplace to stop, get something to eat, and find out if the locals are friendly?”

  No objections. We pulled in at the Bait Bucket, a long shack in white clapboard. Painted alligators snapped at the logo on the sign, and Christmas-tree lights dangled, strung along the dirty eaves. Inside, a couple of slow overhead fans pushed the humidity around. A long and weathered bar stretched down one side of the room, tables on the other. We’d landed somewhere between lunch and dinner; the place was half-full, mostly on the bar stools, locals watching a grainy television and drinking long-necked bottles of beer. My stomach gurgled at the smell of fried fish, and my mouth started to water. I hadn’t had anything on the road but convenience-store junk food and bad coffee.

  A few trucker caps turned our way as we walked in. Curious glances, but welcoming enough. A woman in a faded calico dress came around to our table, passing out beige paper menus stained with a few years of random spills.

  “Hey, folks,” she said, “where y’at?”

  “All right,” Jessie told her with a smile. “But I think we’re all starving. What’s good?”

  “Everything on the menu. But you are standing in the catfish capital of the universe, so that won’t do you no wrong.”

  Jessie glanced at the list. “Catfish po’boy sounds like
a winner to me.”

  “You want that dressed?” she asked.

  “Put everything on it. Everything you can think of. I’m not a picky eater.”

  The rest of us followed her lead. As the woman left us, Jessie lowered her voice.

  “So how are we fixed for weapons? They took our guns at the Diamondback, and we didn’t exactly have time to ask for them back. I still have the nine-millimeter I grabbed off one of Ammandola’s guys, but I’ve only got two shots left.”

  April reached into her tote bag, glancing over her shoulder. She slid a matte-black Glock 23 across the table. “Take mine.”

  Jessie made it disappear. Kevin looked between them.

  “Probably a good time to talk about me getting a gun,” he said.

  Jessie lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve got a drone with a Taser on it. That’s as close as you need to be getting to artillery.”

  “I’m serious. Jessie, Mikki tried to kill me once already. And considering I . . . kinda stood up to her . . .”

  “There was no kinda about it,” I told him. “Whoever let Mikki out wants us to be afraid right now. You and April, especially. They want us to be off our game, looking over our shoulders instead of keeping our eyes on the goal. Know the single best thing you can do about it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t give them the satisfaction,” I said.

  “We shouldn’t tarry,” April said. “Hopefully Panic Cell is chasing its own tail in New York, but we can’t trust that we weren’t picked up on a camera somewhere on the road. There’s also the other party on this hunt.”

  “I might be able to dig up some information.” I pushed my chair back. “Excuse me a second. Need to make a phone call.”

  I stepped outside. A pickup rumbled past, kicking up a cloud of dust, the sun starting to droop low over the bayou. A wet heat hung in the air, sticking in my lungs and making the shoulders of my blouse cling to my skin.

  “Ma chérie,” said the syrupy drawl on the other end of the line. “Seems you’ve been making quite a stir.”

  “Hey, Fontaine. What are you hearing?”

  “Tales of intrigue and strife. Seems a certain noblewoman is most unhappy. She chased a couple of meddlesome humans clear from Portland to Atlantic City, just short of losing their trail. An embarrassing setback.”

  “Good to know.” I paused. “So tell me about Caitlin.”

  He didn’t answer right away. I heard a faint breath, pausing, as he weighed his options.

  “Hound of Prince Sitri. Enforcer and whip hand for the Court of Jade Tears. They hold most of the West Coast.”

  “Considering my team hunts demons for a living, sounds like she should want us dead.”

  “Considering I am one,” Fontaine said, “so should I. As it stands, you’ve got your own special ringtone on my telephone. Do I have one on yours?”

  “She helped us in Portland. Played interference and kept Nadine busy long enough for us to escape.”

  “Like I told you before: she and her colleague Royce think you’re useful. You can accomplish something they can’t. I just don’t know what that something is.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Am I sure I don’t know?” He chuckled. “Reckon either I don’t know or I’m lying to you. Answer’s gonna be the same no matter how sweet you ask me.”

  “That’s fair.” I hesitated. I almost didn’t want to ask the question. “How’s Cody?”

  “Heeding your sage advice for the nonce. He’s in Los Angeles, spitting distance from Bobby Diehl’s business but keeping clear for now.”

  “And he’s off the grid?”

  “Give the boy some credit,” Fontaine said. “Just not too much, or I might start feelin’ jealous. He knows how to keep his head down. Besides, nobody’s looking for him. As far as Bobby knows, your beau met his sad demise in Talbot Cove. You worried somebody else is gonna come hunting?”

  Vigilant Lock, for one, but I’d made a point of never registering Cody as an informant. During my last ill-fated trip to Talbot Cove, we’d explained my presence away as investigating loose ends from the Bogeyman case. As far as I knew, Linder didn’t know Cody existed. I aimed to keep it that way.

  “Probably not,” I said. “But you’ve definitely got him under surveillance, just to be certain?”

  “My apprentice, Rache, is keeping an eye on him. No worries.”

  “I think I met her in Vegas,” I said. “She looks . . . kinda like Wednesday Addams?”

  “I had a similar sentiment. I’d formally introduce you, but, well, she hates everyone, so there’s really no point. Out of idle curiosity, where are you right now, exactly?”

  I smiled at the phone. “Really?”

  “What? Is there no trust between us, my dear? I’m wounded. Cut to the quick.”

  “Catch you later, Fontaine. And thanks.”

  “Take care of yourself, darlin’. I’m looking forward to seeing you again, and I’d prefer it not be on a mortician’s slab. Corpses make for lousy conversation.”

  Back inside, lunch was on the table. Heaping sandwiches on crisp fresh-baked baguettes, fried catfish slathered in melted butter and pickle rounds. Jessie drowned hers in hot sauce. I tucked in, even hungrier than I thought I was.

  “According to Fontaine, Nadine followed us as far as Atlantic City,” I told them between bites. “If we lost her, good chance we lost our former colleagues, too.”

  “Then we’d best be on our guard,” April said. “They won’t wait long to escalate matters.”

  “You sure we can trust this guy?” Kevin asked me.

  I was trusting Fontaine enough to keep Cody safe, a fact I’d decided not to share with the rest of the team. He had sworn vengeance after Bobby Diehl’s terrorist attack in our hometown—Cody had almost opened fire on Diehl in Las Vegas, on a street crowded with police and federal agents—and it had taken everything I had just to convince him to stand down. For now. Fontaine’s apprentice had two jobs: to keep anyone from hurting Cody, and to keep Cody from hurting himself.

  A job I’d paid for with a favor to be named later.

  Crossing demonic lines for information, or a temporary truce of convenience, was one thing. Swapping favors with the enemy was something else entirely. I didn’t have a choice, the way I saw it, not if it meant risking Cody’s life—but I couldn’t tell my team that.

  Between that and my visit with Romeo, I was keeping more secrets than I wanted to. Sooner or later I was going to pay a price for it. Just not right now. I was good for now.

  “We can trust him when it comes to Nadine,” I told Kevin. “She and her kid hate Fontaine almost as much as they hate us. Beyond that . . . I think we can trust Fontaine to do whatever’s in his best interests at any given moment. And right now, that means helping us, or at least not getting in our way.”

  I laid my phone next to my plate, eating with one hand and flicking through pictures with the other. Thanks to Douglas Bredford’s photo collection, we had a pretty good idea what the final living operative from Cold Spectrum looked like: there were three women on his team, and the photo stack had autopsy pictures for two of them. The third was a tall, willowy woman with rich brown skin and a sardonic smile. The photo captured her elbows-deep in the belly of a twin-prop plane, her gloved hands fiddling with its mechanical guts. I couldn’t tell where it had been taken, but the mountains rising in the distance looked a dry and dusty world away from the bayou heat.

  I caught the waitress’s eye. “Excuse me, we’re looking for an old friend of ours. We lost touch, but we think she might live around here. Her name was Boulanger, but she might have gotten remarried since then.”

  Or be using a complete alias, which was why I didn’t drop a first name. Her surname, I could explain getting wrong. The woman leaned in. As she glanced to the phone, I saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes. And under that, a current of sudden suspicion.

  “Aselia? Sure, she’s a local. Sort of.” She studied my face,
hard. “What do you want with her?”

  “Like I said, we’re old friends.”

  “Well, that’s funny,” she said, “because she doesn’t have any. She came to Des Allemands to leave her old life behind. And under no circumstances does she want it comin’ back around again.”

  I put my phone away. “I’ll level with you: trouble is on the way, whether she wants it or not, and we’re trying to help her before it gets here. That old life just came back with a vengeance. You don’t have to tell us where she is. If you can just get her on the phone—”

  The waitress snorted. “She ain’t got a phone. Look, Aselia helps out a lot of people around here. It’s not something that gets talked about much, not the way she helps—but she helps. You’re not gonna find many folks willing to let you or anybody else disturb her peace.”

  “We’re asking,” I told her. “The ones who come after us won’t be asking. They’ll be looking to hurt people. And they’ll keep hurting people until they get at her. All we want to do is let her know what’s coming and get her out of town before they show up.”

  She stared me hard in the eye. Hard and deep, looking for something she could trust. Whatever she saw there, she gave a nod and stepped back from the table.

  “You want Beau’s swamp-tour place. Up the Bayou Road, just by the Highway 631 bridge. Beau knows the way to find her. Not sayin’ he’ll take you, but he knows the way.”

  She headed back into the kitchen. Jessie splashed one last dollop of hot sauce onto the crusty edge of her sandwich and smiled.

  “All right,” she said. “We’ve got a lead, we’re miles ahead of the competition—looks like everything’s going our way for a change. I’m starting to feel good about this.”

  Kevin sat, frozen, staring off to the side. His mouth hung open. He reached over and tugged the sleeve of my jacket until I followed his line of sight, looking to the small, grainy TV set hanging over the bar.

  We were on television.

  ELEVEN