The Assassin's Case

by Craig Alexander

  While Evans changed in the bathroom, Jaime removed her shoes and jacket before sinking beneath the covers.

  Evans emerged in a tee-shirt and shorts and settled into his own bed. “I e-mailed my wife. It was sort of a coded message, but she’ll get the gist.”

  “Good boy.” Jaime pulled the comforter back and plopped into bed without taking the time to undress.

  * * * * *

  Tedesco dreamed of death. Not his. That might not have been so terrible. No. His dreams were of women and children being consumed by billowing flames. Their pleas for rescue and shrieks of pain bringing screams from his own throat. He tried to reach them, but the walls of flame blocked his path. He ran to find a way around them, but as soon as he found a way through another wall would erupt before him, searing his skin, and singeing his hair. Frustrated by his inability to make progress, he finally held his arms over his face and ran into the fire. Fingers of flame licked with burning tongues, scorching his skin. Clothes smoldering, he broke through the blaze. He lowered his arms and searched through cloying smoke. A form stood a few feet away and Tedesco moved toward it. As he approached, the smoke cleared allowing him to see … himself. At his own feet lay Grant’s family. Dead. Tedesco’s doppelganger held a detonator in one hand. When Tedesco approached it tilted its head back and laughed, a thumb pressing the button. Grant appeared through the smoke yelling, “Noooo ….!”

  Tedesco woke in the front passenger seat of the Chrysler, relieved to have escaped the hideous dream. Though such dreams used to regularly plague his sleep, it had been a long time since he had one so vivid and disturbing. He realized the nightmare was most likely a projection of his dread at the prospect of meeting Charlotte Sawyer. He shivered and drew his coat tighter around him, realizing the chill seeping into his bones was as much from his fear as the chill in the air.

  He shut his eyes and shifted in the seat to find a comfortable position. Forcing the anxiety from his thoughts, he sought calm before starting to pray.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Grant rested in a recliner in the dark living room. A pleasant scent from some sort of potpourri filled the air. Two stockings hung from the fireplace mantle and presents spilled from under a small tree next to the hearth. Although shadows cloaked the furniture and framed art on the walls, the room felt warm and homey. He thought about the family that shared their lives in this room. His family. All he had left. They didn’t know him, and worse didn’t want to. Grant hadn’t realized how bitterly he missed his sister. He squeezed his eyes shut. There was nothing he could do about the past, it was a vain effort. He needed to worry about the here and now. Opening his eyes, he stared through an archway at the kitchen door.

  It had taken about a minute for him to pick up the surveillance on the house. Two cars worked a rotation. At varying intervals and locations, within view of Charlotte’s, one car would park along the curb, then the next one would arrive, and the first would pull away. An obvious effort to alleviate suspicion about their presence. Grant was certain at least one more person would be watching Charlotte.

  After two hours in the flowerbed Grant entered the house by way of a rear bedroom window. Forced to break the glass, he had waited for the sound of a passing car to cover the noise. Sneaking through the house to make sure he was alone, his eyes devoured the images in the multitude of framed photos hanging on the walls and propped on shelves. The pictures told the story of Charlotte’s life. Two sons who appeared to be between the ages of six and ten, and notably absent were any photos of the father. Grant assumed divorce, a bitter one. Looking at the framed images made him feel like a thief, stealing memories of a life he had no right to intrude upon.

  He leaned into the chair. For the thousandth time he tried to convince himself this was the best thing to do. If he didn’t bring Charlotte in Cane’s people could, and probably would, eventually grab her.

  In a set of built-in shelves next to the fireplace, arranged almost like a shrine, sat a congested group of pictures of Grant’s parents, wife, and son. Also notably absent were any photos of Grant.

  He had debated on the best way to let Charlotte know of his presence, without alerting her shadows. The most efficient way would be to grab her from behind and cover her mouth to stifle a scream, but he couldn’t bring himself to terrorize her that way. So, he had decided on a note. Using a black Sharpie to scratch bold letters, he left the message on the kitchen table, leaned against the centerpiecefacing the door.

  * * * * *

  Grant’s eyes snapped open at the sound of a key rattling in a lock. Pain shot through his neck as he jerked his head upright. His chin must have lolled to his chest when he fell asleep. The clock on the mantle indicated it was a little past twelve.

  The door eased open and Charlotte stepped inside, shut it, and twisted the deadbolt. She leaned her back against the door, shut her eyes, and blew out a long sigh. Rumpled and stained light-blue surgical scrubs were visible beneath her unbuttoned knee-length coat. Tough day.

  When she opened her eyes they flashed toward the note.

  Grant’s heart thudded, his hands clutched the chair’s arms. This was the point where things could go very wrong.

  Charlotte’s right hand shot into the purse hanging from her left shoulder and snatched free a snub-nosed thirty-eight revolver. As she brought the gun up she thumbed back the hammer and reinforced her grip with her left hand.

  Grant couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride at her reaction. Though she detested guns and hated violence, she knew better than anyone what could happen to the unprepared. Gun held at the ready, Charlotte stepped toward the table, her eyes raking over the note.

  ‘Charlotte. It’s Grant. PLEASE don’t say a word or call out.

  I’m in the house. I’m coming out. I’ll explain everything.’

  Pushing out of the chair with a groan of well-used springs and the creak of leather, Grant stood. Charlotte swiveled the pistol toward the noise. Hands raised over his shoulders, Grant stepped into the kitchen. He placed a finger to his lips and she lowered the weapon. The look on her face could only be called stunned disbelief. Her lips formed a small O as if about to ask a question.

  Grant again held a finger to his lips and crossed the floor toward her. She stared at him with wide eyes. He stopped right in front of her and before he realized what he was doing he circled her in his arms and squeezed her to him. Her body stiffened at his touch then relaxed and he felt a hand on his back.

  He placed his mouth next to her ear and whispered. “I’m sorry. But you’re in danger. There are people watching the house right now. They have video and sound equipment.”

  Grant heard her draw in a breath but interrupted her before she could speak. “Where are your children?”

  “They’re staying with their father. For Christmas,” she whispered in his ear. “What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

  He let her go and motioned for her to follow him. Grant led Charlotte into the living room and pointed to the gap in the partially opened curtains. She followed his finger toward the car parked across the street. She frowned.

  He leaned to her ear. “I’ll explain everything later. As quietly as you can, throw some things in a bag. We have to get out of here.”

  “Can I at least take a shower?”

  “Sure.”

  Grant put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. He mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

  She stared at him, her brow wrinkled. She shook her head and stuffed the gun back into her purse, before turning toward her bedroom.

  * * * * *

  Grant stepped out of the rear window and then helped Charlotte through. With her overnight bag across his left shoulder, he led her by the hand toward the back fence. He decided to avoid Brutus by taking a more direct route. They would just go through the yard directly behind Charlotte’s and risk taking the sidewalk to the vacant house. Grant still had no idea how he would be able to explain Tedesco’s presence. He didn’t think she would just shoot
him, but he really didn’t know that for a fact. While Charlotte showered and packed he had rehearsed several different versions of an explanation. None of them sounded reasonable even to him. The whole damn thing was just too crazy. It simply defied explanation.

  They reached the fence and Grant let go of Charlotte’s hand. He pointed to the other side and bent to cup his hands to help her over. She shook her head and pointed. Grant squinted. About three feet to the right was a set of hinges, a latch, and the faint outline of a gate.

  Of course.

  Charlotte lifted the latch and pulled open the gate, the creak of wood and hinges made Grant cringe. Charlotte in the lead, they tiptoed through the yard and through another gate into a driveway.

  Grant scanned the street for any passing cars. Once sure the way was clear, he grabbed Charlotte’s hand and hurried toward the sidewalk. “It’s not much farther.”

  They half walked, half jogged, along the walkway until they reached the vacant house. Grant led her through the gate and around the back of the garage. He raised the window and poked his head inside. In the gloom he could just make out Tedesco in the front seat, staring back at him. Grant held up a hand to let him know to stay put.

  Turning to Charlotte Grant swallowed. “This may be a bit of a shock.”

  She raised her eyebrows as if to say, And the rest of this hasn’t been?

  Grant stepped over the low sill and pulled her in after him. He turned to the car and waved for Tedesco to step out. It took Charlotte a moment to recognize him, but as soon as she did she gasped and placed a hand over her mouth.

  She flattened against the wall, her eyes wide, darting from Grant to Tedesco. “You. What —?”

  Before she recovered enough to pull the gun from her purse and start shooting, Grant began spitting out the story in clipped rapid-fire sentences. He re-counted the entire tale with barely a pause for breath, starting with his interception of the case in the mall.

  He couldn’t tell who was more nervous. Hands in his pockets and eyes on the floor, Tedesco shifted his weight from foot-to-foot while Grant spoke. Tedesco looked like a trapped animal who wanted nothing more than to flee.

  Grant’s own heart raced, cold sweat collected under his arms, and he struggled to cough words out of his dry mouth and throat.

  As Grant talked Charlotte visibly relaxed and occasionally interjected a question. Of the three of them she seemed to be the most composed. And by a very wide margin.

  Once Grant finished his tale she simply asked, “What now?”

  THIRTY

  Grant stared at the highway as it unfurled past the Chrysler’s hood. He shared the backseat with Charlotte. Tedesco drove. They traveled west on I-20 toward Dallas. For a while after they began the trip Grant and Charlotte attempted some small talk, making a passing effort to catch up. Now they road in silence. Grant wanted to reach out to his sister, probe her thoughts, but didn’t think he should press her.

  Three hours into the trip Tedesco had not said a word, barely risking a glance at them in the rearview mirror. He had tuned the satellite radio to Fox news to fill the quiet.

  As they passed through the outskirts of Shreveport, Louisiana, Charlotte leaned forward and addressed Tedesco. “I’ve tried not to hate you. I’ve tried not to let what you did consume me like it has my brother. But seeing you. Both of you.” A tear ran down her cheek. “It brings it all back.”

  Tedesco’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he labored to swallow. The big man looked on the verge of tears himself. He opened his mouth to speak but Charlotte interrupted.

  “Is it true? Have you actually changed? Do you really regret what you’ve done?”

  Tedesco turned his head to face her and their eyes locked for a brief moment. He nodded before returning his attention to the road, but kept an eye on her in the mirror. “I don’t have the words to tell you how sorry I am.”

  Charlotte nodded, leaned back in her seat, and swiped a palm across her eyes. She turned toward the window, her back to Grant, and propped her head on her arm.

  Grant stretched his fingers toward her, but dropped his hand before it touched her back. He settled deeper into the seat and closed his eyes, but sleep eluded him.

  Though it seemed the trip would take forever, they finally arrived at the FBI’s Dallas field office at a little past eight in the morning. They parked in the visitor’s lot facing the front of the 230,000 square foot building. The office’s location at One Justice Way was situated with security in mind. Bordered at the rear by the Trinity River and the sides by two creeks, the entrance drive provided the only access by car. Being here brought Grant a mixture of bittersweet memories.

  Grant scanned the area in front of the building. They planned to catch Steve as he came in to work. Within thirty minutes Grant saw him step out of his car and begin crossing the parking lot.

  Digging into his coat pocket, Grant extracted a letter and passed it to Charlotte. “Just give this to him.”

  She opened the door but hesitated before stepping out.

  “You need to go,” Grant said.

  Charlotte wrapped her arms around Grant’s neck. He could feel hot tears on his cheek as she clutched him. “I’m so sorry.” A sob racked her shoulders. “I blamed you … I —”

  Grant’s wife and his sister had been close, more like sisters than sisters-in-law. During Grant and Susan’s first years of marriage Charlotte lived nearby. When Grant was away, which was all too often, Charlotte served as a buffer to Susan’s loneliness, kept her company, helped her take care of Pierce. His son had adored Charlotte, and she him. Grant knew one of the reasons his sister wouldn’t, couldn’t, reconcile with him was the fact that she had lost so much herself. Losing their parents had been hard. Losing Susan tragic. But, losing Pierce was unbearable for her. Every time Charlotte looked at Grant her pain was renewed. He could see it in her eyes. That’s why it wasn’t necessary for her to offer any explanations. He understood. He always had.

  “It’s all right.” Grant squeezed her tight. “I understand.” He gently pushed her away and brushed the tears from her cheek with his thumb. “You have to go now. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”

  She squeezed his shoulder before she hopped out of the car and moved to intercept Steve. She caught him just before he entered the building. His eyes went wide at the sight of her. He opened his mouth to speak, but Charlotte pulled him close and whispered in his ear. She hooked her arm in his and they disappeared through the doors.

  “Let’s go,” Grant said. As they pulled out of the parking lot he spotted the car with Steve’s tail. Two men. One of them spoke into a cell.

  Tedesco pulled onto the ramp to take them south on Stemmons Freeway and gunned the engine to match the flow of the morning commuters.

  Stretching out on the backseat, Grant tried to get comfortable. “Can you make it a couple a more hours?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “After I sleep a little I’ll take over.”

  “Okay.” Tedesco gazed at him in the rearview mirror. “Your sister is really pretty.”

  Grant sat up and leaned forward between the bucket seats. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Tedesco shrugged his shoulders. “Hey. I’m just sayin’.”

  * * * * *

  The car bumped over a pothole and Grant opened his eyes. A groan croaked from his throat as he woke. According to his watch he hadn’t been asleep much more than an hour. The slow pace and the crackle of gravel beneath the tires told Grant the car was no longer on the interstate.

  He sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heel of a palm. “Where—?” Grant’s hands shot to the headrest of the front passenger seat and squeezed. His eyes locked on the words stenciled into a metal entrance arch as the car passed beneath it.

  Shady Grove Cemetery.

  Grant’s arms and legs tingled and his skull pulsed with each beat of his heart. “Jimmy, what do you think you’re doing?”

  Tedesco didn’t respond. He steered the ca
r along a path of crushed white gravel. Uniform rows of massive Oaks towered over both sides of the road, their boughs touching, forming a natural archway over the cemetery’s entrance drive.

  The graveyard was located on the outskirts of Big Sandy, a tiny town in Upshur County in extreme East Texas with a population of less than thirteen-hundred people. When they passed the exit on their way to Dallas earlier this morning both Grant’s and Charlotte’s eyes had locked on the sign. The little town had been the birthplace of their parents and the lifelong home of their grandparents.

  Though this little side trip would take them no more than twenty minutes out of the way, this was perhaps the last place in the world Grant wanted to be. He had come such a long way and had no desire for a nose-dive back into anger and depression.

  He released his death grip on the seat. “Jimmy. Answer me. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  They emerged from the shadows of the oaks and the road split in three directions. Tedesco took the path on the right. If a graveyard could be called beautiful this one was. A sea of headstones in the midst of a tree-dappled meadow with manicured green grass.

  “I though you might want to stop while you had the chance. How long has it been?” Tedesco said.

  “You. Thought.” Grant stifled the stream of curses collecting on the back of his tongue. He wanted to strangle Tedesco. He wanted to cry. To scream. Something. Instead, he just clamped his eyes shut and leaned back in the seat.

  The car rolled to a stop and Tedesco shut down the engine.

  Grant opened his eyes and tilted his head to the right. A footpath angled up a small knoll. At the top of the hill, beneath the branches of a tall weeping willow, a white picket fence surrounded six graves. Grant spoke through gritted teeth. “I don’t know what you’re up to. And I don’t know why you know where this place is. But, if I were you, I would pick my next words carefully.”