Double Vision

by Colby Marshall

  Jenna blinked. “I . . . uh . . . I don’t know.”

  In her anger, she’d left without forcing Yancy to tell her the details. She hadn’t acted like a cop, but a girlfriend. A pissed one, and for good reason.

  Victor held her gaze, a fierce look in his eye. “I need you to be really frank with me here, Jenna. Do you believe what he said? About the people who did this maybe coming after you and Ayana if they were to find out?”

  She licked her lips nervously, tried to picture Yancy’s face and voice as he’d said it. She’d been fuming when he’d mentioned Ayana, and yet . . .

  Yancy’s personal genuine yellow flashed in. It wasn’t the color she saw in anyone else for sincerity, of course, but it didn’t have to be. It was the color she saw as him. He’d been himself in that moment. No salmon of holding back or burnt orange of lies. Just him.

  “Yes,” she said.

  The ding of a text on her phone cut the thick air between them. She tore her eyes away from Victor and picked up her cell from the counter. With the team still working overtime on this case, anything new that came through would come to her. She couldn’t afford to ignore the phone, as much as she needed the night off.

  Sure enough, the message was from Saleda.

  Got hold of the Triple Shooter’s old psych and have some leads. Need your brain. You on the way?

  She hadn’t exactly told Saleda she was coming home, and apparently Porter hadn’t, either. As much as she’d love to tell everyone to back off, whoever tried to manipulate the Triple Shooter into killing Molly Keegan was still out there, and Eldred Beasley was still missing.

  She typed back.

  Be there in twenty.

  Jenna looked back at Victor. “They need me at Quantico.”

  She wanted to plead with him to help her, to tell her what to do about Yancy and this situation. She needed someone, for once, to save her.

  He stood. “I can see myself out. Go give the fam good-bye kisses.”

  Jenna undid the lock series despite what he’d said. He couldn’t see himself out if he wanted to. She opened the door, her heart dropping as what felt like her only ally walked away.

  Victor turned just past the stoop.

  “Don’t tell another person what you told me. I’ll talk to Yancy and make sure he doesn’t. Don’t let on to a single person that anything strange went on tonight or that night,” he said.

  “Victor—”

  He grabbed her hand, squeezed it.

  His hand was so warm.

  “Don’t think about it again. I’ll take care of it,” he said.

  And he left, without another word.

  53

  Jenna was in the back of the unfamiliar conference room next to Saleda, munching a donut and listening. When she’d gotten to headquarters Saleda had filled her in on the conversation with the psychiatrist Tobias Gray had stopped seeing a year ago. Now that Tobias was dead, it was a lot easier to ask his old doctor questions and actually have him answer. Less worries about doctor–patient confidentiality. Saleda had questioned him about who might’ve had any sort of influence over Tobias Gray, about anyone who would’ve known about his mental state. He’d pointed the team to an AA meeting he knew the Triple Shooter had started attending. Tobias hadn’t been a drinker, but the principles of self-control and self-forgiveness in AA could apply to schizophrenia recovery. The psychiatrist himself had suggested the idea. It was the only thing he could point them to. Tobias’s family had cut him off, no longer sure how to deal with his illness, and his former patient had had trouble making real friends because of that illness.

  Lucky for them, that very AA group had a meeting in Alexandria tonight, and Saleda and Jenna had made it in time to slip in the back.

  When the current speaker stepped down and the leader asked who’d like to share next, Jenna stood. This wasn’t going to be pleasant, but they didn’t have time for the normal routes of inquiry. A man was missing, and he might’ve been taken by someone who told the Triple Shooter to kill a six-year-old.

  She made it to the podium and held up her badge. “I’m Dr. Jenna Ramey, part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. I’m here to find out what anyone here knows about this man, or anybody who might be associated with him.”

  Jenna held up a picture of Tobias Gray’s driver’s license photo, blown up for just this purpose. “This is Tobias Gray. He used to come to this very meeting, and in recent months or days became involved with a very dangerous person. We don’t know who that person is, but we hope someone here can point us in the right direction. We need to know who he was around or what he was doing in the days leading up to now. We have no more leads, and in order to pursue him, we need something—anything you can give us.”

  Silence met her, the blank stares of the meeting participants echoing surprise, concern, and a plethora of other emotions. Some even had fear written on their faces.

  She’d known this would be difficult, especially since some people here had already faced run-ins with the law they weren’t keen to dredge up again. Not to mention, the whole point of these meetings was to remain anonymous, though she knew they all were aware of each others’ names, occupations, and more.

  “No one?” she asked. “Okay, let me put this another way. I can have some answers here, or I can bring each and every one of you in for questioning. But trust me, this man has done some awful things, and a lot of what he might do from here on depends on us finding out who he was involved with recently. Every law enforcement agency from here to the North Pole would be all right with me dragging in twenty people for questioning if it meant getting the information we need.”

  Victor’s nickname of “Hardass” popped into Jenna’s mind. She hated doing this, because it was always better to win trust. But in some cases, there just wasn’t time for that.

  A woman in her thirties raised her hand, then stood. She shook slightly.

  “He . . . Tobias stopped coming here almost a year ago. Might be doing something totally different by now, but back then, he’d started going to another meeting. A Celebrate Recovery assembly at a church somewhere a town over, I think.”

  “Okay. I have Celebrate Recovery. Anybody care to share anything else about that? Someone’s gotta know . . .”

  No one spoke for a long minute. Then the group’s leader stood up.

  “I don’t know where he went, but I can provide a list of the Celebrate Recovery meetings within a hundred mile radius,” he said.

  “Great. Come with us, sir. The rest of you, thanks for your time.”

  • • •

  After the group leader had given them the list and thoroughly berated them for interrupting the room full of fragile, healing minds and bodies, they left the conference hall. Jenna searched online for the nearest FedEx store, and they set out for the print shop to send the list to Irv. Jenna had tried to take a picture of the papers and send them, but between the tiny print and number of pages the list stretched across, faxing the sheets would be easier and faster. It would take her and Saleda days to comb through all these meetings, and time was something they didn’t have. They had no idea what Irv might be able to do with the list, but hopefully he could give them a place to start.

  “What’s he going to do?” Jenna asked as they waited to receive confirmation that their fax had gone through. “Cross-reference Tobias’s name with his ass crack? We gave him a list of anonymous meetings in a hundred mile radius. It’s not like there’s some ritual all alcoholics perform prior to meetings that would show up on electronic records, like depositing checks at the bank next door to the church where they get together.”

  “I’ve never been a drinker, so I wouldn’t know. Let’s hope there is something like that, though. We’re screwed for tonight and maybe all week if not, and Eldred doesn’t have that long,” Saleda replied.

  Jenna picked up the list again. Maybe they weren
’t screwed. Not yet, anyway.

  “What if we thought like him? The group leader said he asked for this same list, and that’s how he found his own meeting when he started turning more religious. If you were the Triple Shooter, how would you use this list to find the one place you’d like to go?” Jenna said, not sure if she was talking to Saleda or herself.

  “The place with the best donuts?” Saleda ventured.

  “Okay, but if you were Tobias Gray . . .”

  Jenna was already scanning the list for things that might jump out at her if she were him. Maybe a Celebrate Recovery meeting at the Church of the Hydra or something Greek . . .

  Then, she saw it, the green of the Triple Shooter burning bright in front of her eyes.

  Three Thirty-three Claxton Street. St. Ignatius Holy Church of the Sabbath.

  Sabbath. Seven.

  Jenna pointed to the listing. “It’s this one.”

  Saleda didn’t ask, but instead said, “No meeting until tomorrow.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to wait then . . .” Jenna said, sarcasm dripping from her tone. Then, “What are you, nuts? We’re the FBI! We’ll get Irv on the horn, he’ll fetch the staff listings, and we’ll call up every employee until their phones ring so much they feel crazy enough to answer. When they do, we’ll ask for the name and contact information of whoever is in charge of those meetings.”

  Saleda stared at her, and Jenna immediately felt herself blushing. Telling your Agent in Charge what to do wasn’t just crossing the line. It was downright rude.

  “Sorry,” Jenna mumbled.

  Saleda nodded. “Me, too. This case has my head in a twist.”

  She pulled out her phone and called Irv, and in a short few minutes, they had the name, phone number, and home address of the person responsible for the Celebrate Recovery meetings at St. Ignatius. But from what the church secretary told them before she’d given it to them, they wouldn’t need it. The church was only a few blocks away, and the leader of the meetings, “Brother Ozzie,” was there now, volunteering during a drop-in communion and prayer candle lighting.

  “Hope God’s okay with wrinkled slacks,” Jenna said as they left the FedEx store’s parking lot.

  “Slacks are the least of my worries. I have a bunch of unpaid parking tickets.”

  Jenna’s heart panged with the thought of Yancy and what he’d done. Was the situation even fixable? Victor said he’d take care of it, but what the hell could he take care of?

  “Parking tickets. Right,” Jenna breathed. Best not to think about it right now. “Brother Ozzie, here we come.”

  54

  Eldred didn’t know this place. Where was he?

  The room was dark, but with a glow from somewhere he couldn’t quite see. He stepped farther inside the place. Strange things. He didn’t recognize any of this.

  He ran his hand along a canvas on the wall. It seemed somehow familiar, but he wasn’t sure why. He’d seen it, though. Maybe somewhere with Sarah once? He couldn’t be certain.

  The glow beckoned him. He was curious now, and he had to see where it came from.

  He opened something that looked like a closet, but no clothes hung inside. No light switch. Was he indoors or out? Was this a place with electricity?

  The glow he’d seen from behind the canvas now seemed to come from a tiny door near the bottom corner of the closet-like area. How could that be? The canvas was outside this closet, and this closet on another wall entirely.

  That made no sense to Eldred.

  He crouched at the tiny door. After he turned the two small screws—one in the tiny door’s center top, the other opposite the first at its bottom—the door came off to reveal a space inside just big enough for a person. The floor inside was boarded over. Seemed safe enough . . .

  Eldred squatted, then gingerly sank down to his knees. He crawled inside.

  Down the short tunnel from the entrance, a new room opened up. This was the glow.

  Even stranger things here, but this time, he could see them in the light.

  Eldred could see another person already here, too.

  The man held up his hands amidst all of the strange things. “Mr. Beasley? It’s Mr. Beasley, correct? Please don’t be alarmed. I’m a police officer. I’m Special Agent Gabriel Dodd.”

  • • •

  Molly sat in front of the television, pretending to watch the National Geographic special on the blue whale. Really, she was listening to her mother and Liam arguing in the corner in hushed voices.

  Even though the police had called Liam to let him know he was about to come home to a giant police hunt for a man involved with the grocery store investigation, she didn’t blame her stepdad for being surprised. He’d told her mother a bunch of times that he’d rather her not be involved in the case, that they all needed to move on. Molly knew he just wanted what was best, but it did hurt her feelings a little that Liam of all people wasn’t able to see how much she could help.

  “You specifically went behind my back and told them they could come?” he was saying in a harsh whisper.

  “I didn’t do anything behind your back. She’s my daughter, Liam. I make the decisions about her,” her mom hissed.

  Molly gulped. She’d never heard her mom say anything like that before. They were always telling her that Liam was as good as a real dad and better than some, that she should respect him like he was her own. And she did. They were her family.

  But now her mom was telling Liam she wasn’t his daughter? This case had made everyone frustrated. Not just her or Mr. Beasley or Dr. Ramey . . . everyone felt bad. If only she could fix everything. She just wanted to go back to normal.

  “Eldred Beasley leads some nutcase to our doorstep, and you want to tell me I don’t have Molly’s best interests at heart? Raine, you’re delusional!”

  “I never said you didn’t have her best interests at heart. I’m just saying your mother didn’t die, and the decision to involve Molly isn’t yours to make.”

  This time, Molly let her eyes drift toward the argument and away from the TV. Liam’s face was blank, and he looked like he’d been slapped.

  “Well, it used to be,” he said.

  Molly jerked her head back to the TV as Liam stood and stormed away.

  55

  Jenna stepped into the foyer of St. Ignatius Holy Church of the Sabbath behind Saleda. The church had a formal feeling about it, like the congregation had to be very serious about itself to attend. It didn’t feel like an only-Sundays sort of a place, that was for sure.

  Saleda headed into the sanctuary, but as Jenna made to follow, she stopped at the foyer table right outside the sanctuary doors. A book on the top of a stack on the table had caught her eye. The book bore the words “A Christian Celebration” on the cover, and it was adorned with a design of curlicues around a lozenge shape.

  An olive green flashed in. She’d seen that color before. Strange . . .

  “Jenna . . .”

  Her head shot up from the book. Saleda was beckoning her with a hand. She’d spotted someone.

  She followed Saleda toward the fifty-something man at the front of the church lighting candles.

  “Excuse me. We’re looking for Ozzie Quay,” Saleda said.

  The man turned and smiled warmly, his forehead wrinkling with lines from showing the expression so often. “Look no further. What may I do for you ladies?”

  Saleda displayed her badge and introduced Jenna, then launched into the reason for their visit. She told Brother Ozzie all about the Triple Shooter, how they came to find him, and why it was imperative they know more about him. That was when she told Brother Ozzie his name.

  “Tobias? A killer? That’s . . . terrible,” he said, though somehow he didn’t sound as surprised as some people did when told a friend or acquaintance of theirs had committed despicable crimes ending with the de
aths of other human beings. Traditionally, people were dumbfounded and horrified at the revelation, and their shock was understandable. They had known and been associated with cold-blooded sociopaths who were fantastic actors. However, in Tobias Gray’s case, with his Christmas-lit house and probably unusual physical tics, Jenna doubted those around him had had to worry about being fooled by an accomplished, highly functioning performer.

  “You don’t seem stunned,” Saleda said.

  The minister looked down, shook his head. “I’m not, unfortunately. I haven’t seen Tobias in several months, but he did attend church with us here a while after starting the Celebrate Recovery program. He seemed to like it here, felt he fit. At the same time, he was . . . unusual. He was a disturbed person, very upset by many things. Sensitive, easily perturbed. For example, I recall a conversation about the September eleventh tragedy that came up at a potluck dinner once, and the sheer mention of the date made Tobias excessively nervous. We all have horrid memories of that day, of course, but for Tobias, it seemed to hit a particular nerve, to the point where I wondered if someone he knew and loved had been harmed in the attacks.”

  Jenna was sure her face gave away her surprise, but right now, she didn’t care. September eleventh . . . the infamous date of the terror attacks. Molly’s birthday. “Nine eleven, did you say? What did he do when the date was mentioned?”

  Brother Ozzie looked up and to the right, a common direction to glance for those trying to remember a past event. That particular orientation of the gaze usually indicated visual memory, as opposed to how someone making something up would look in a different direction. If Claudia had been “remembering” something she hadn’t really done or seen—before she got good at fooling people, anyway—she’d have looked up and to the left, a standard habit of those taking on visual construction.

  “He didn’t do anything, really, just talked strangely. He would mutter repeatedly about how bad things happened on that date . . . how things always went wrong then. He also mentioned something about how the tail number of one of the planes was N-three-three-something-or-other, and Flight Ninety-three . . . this or that about those numbers combined with the date had always been bad news, had always meant nothing would end well, or something to that effect. I can’t remember what all he said that night. But it was clearly a subject that had bothered him enough to file away those facts and memories,” Brother Ozzie said, shaking his head sadly.