Shadows in the Water

by Kory M. Shrum

  Brasso always had that me first way about him. He remembered a few luxury items. An Armani watch. A $1500 bracelet. But Brasso’s first wife had been rich, the daughter of a man with a fashion empire.

  King pried open the folded piece of paper he’d found in Brasso’s pocket. It was a rectangular sheet of cream stationery, with Hotel Monteleone printed in elegant script across the top of the page.

  Beneath it, in Brasso’s scrawl, was a series of numbers and letters. FLR-CDG 815-1005. CDG-IAH 1040-205.

  He also had a pen from Huang’s carry-out and a green poker chip.

  He slipped these items into his own pockets as Lou reappeared.

  King’s heart jolted as if kicked by a horse when he saw her. “You got shot?”

  She frowned at him, looking down at herself as if seeing all the blood for the first time. She met his eyes. “Not mine.”

  Nausea rolled over him. “Venetti?”

  “Shot in the shoulder. She’ll live. Lucy is cleaning her up.”

  King flinched at the mention of Lucy.

  Lou clenched and unclenched her fists. “Decide what to tell her before she murders you.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. There was nothing he could say to Lucy that wouldn’t provoke her wrath. She’d expected him to rehabilitate Lou. Help her find a better way of slaking her bloodlust, not launch a death match against a senator and a corrupted DEA agent. “Let’s hurry then. I want to solve this before she tears me limb from limb.”

  Lou frowned at the unconscious man. “I’ll dump his body in La Loon.”

  King swallowed. “Okay.”

  To his surprise, he hadn’t realized until this moment he might have to kill Brasso. He had no desire to kill his friend, even if the fucker had been about two seconds from putting a bullet in him.

  But as soon as he’d said it, he knew she was right. Killing Brasso was a real possibility. What was the alternative? Turn him over to the authorities? Maybe. But his leverage against Brasso, an active serviceman, was limited.

  It didn’t help that he couldn’t explain himself as well as he’d like. If he found himself in a media maelstrom, how would he explain how he found Venetti? How did he get to San Diego? He would start to look as suspicious as Brasso and twice as fast. And King saw the destruction of Jack Thorne firsthand. Being the good guy didn’t immunize you against public opinion or the consequences of that public opinion.

  King said, “I think he was staying at the Monteleone. I want to check his room.”

  Lou frowned. “Do you want to investigate or interrogate first?”

  He hesitated.

  She arched an eyebrow. “He isn’t going to stay unconscious much longer.”

  She was right. Damn.

  Lou’s eyebrow arched higher as she watched him debate inside how to deal with his traitorous friend. “I have a place.”

  “What do you mean a place?”

  “Somewhere to hold him where he won’t be found and he can’t escape.”

  A chill ran up King’s spine. “No one should have a place like that.”

  She looked up at him through dark lashes. “I do.”

  “Fine,” he said and bent to help lift the man. “We’ll take him—”

  She already had him up under the other arm, lifting. King tried not to gape at her. It was discrimination, he knew, to be surprised a woman was as strong as he was. And while he might not have controlled his gaping mouth as well as he could have, at least he had not said anything stupid like how much can you lift?

  The fact that she’d pulled Brasso out of his arms and balanced him against her shoulder was testament enough. Brasso was 220 at least.

  “Grab on to me,” Lou said without any hint of strain in her voice. King reached out and placed one hand on her hip before realizing it was far too intimate, the feel of her taut core under his hand. He moved it up to her shoulder, inching his finger between her shoulder and Brasso’s bicep.

  She pulled him toward his armoire as if it wasn’t there. He had a moment of disbelief when he thought she was going to crash right into the giant piece of furniture. It was dark. Maybe she didn’t see it?

  “Hey—” he began, but the word stuck in his throat. His stomach dropped, and he was riding down the impossibly high roller coaster again, his body caught in a slipstream.

  Then the ground came, and his knees buckled, wobbling.

  “Fucking hell,” he groaned and stumbled away from her. “I’m never going to get used to that.”

  King let his eyes adjust to dim light. It was completely dark in this space. And it was a space. No more than eight feet by eight feet. And as King ran his hands along the wall, he knew it was made of metal. Ore, perhaps. The scent of rust was strong. There was no door. No window. No hinges of any kind. Lou had popped them right into a sealed box.

  His panic rose. The walls seemed to move an inch closer to the center, ready to crush him flat. “Where are we?”

  She didn’t answer. She propped Brasso against a wall and a fan kicked on somewhere. King felt a stream of cool air pump into the sealed box, and he used the back of his bare hand to follow the stream. When he was right beneath it, he jumped, arms stretching up, groping for the vent, but he grabbed nothing.

  “It’s twelve feet up,” Lou said.

  “What kind of place is this?” he asked. The walls were moving in on him. He felt the familiar closing of his throat. Claustrophobia bit into the back of his neck.

  “I’d tell you,” she said, her hands clamping down on his arm. “But I’d have to kill you.”

  Another chill ran up his spine. He opened his mouth to say something funny, anything to lessen the tension squeezing his chest, but the rollercoaster drop came again. The world had been yanked out from under him, and he was falling through the dark.

  His legs trembled when the ground reappeared.

  Lou let go of his arm, and he wobbled even more.

  “A little warning,” he hissed. He ran a hand over his face, but closing his eyes intensified the dizziness. Despite the nauseated waves in his guts, relief swelled in his chest. No box. No crushing claustrophobia. He ran a palm over his sweaty face.

  Lou looked as steady as a 9-to-5 job with an employer-matched 401K.

  “Why doesn’t it affect you like this?” he asked. He would’ve asked her any question right then if it meant pushing the walls of his world out.

  Lou shrugged at the mouth of the alley. She stepped back into the light and looked up and down the street. “Lucy would say, ‘Why would a bird get motion sick when it’s flying?’”

  “Call me a penguin then,” King said and stepped into the light.

  The Hotel Monteleone gleamed. The imposing white building loomed with its textured surface and grand flags hanging on either side of the shining entrance. It was in the Antebellum style and looked like a horse and carriage would pull up at any moment, Southern Belles stepping out in their glossy gowns, fans waving in their white-gloved hands.

  “Do you know his room number?” she asked.

  “No,” he sighed. The night air cooled the sweat on the back of his neck. “But I’ve got these.”

  He put the poker chip, the folded stationery, and Huang carryout pen in her open hand.

  She scowled at him. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

  King frowned. “Can’t you use your compass to find out where these things came from?”

  She snorted and shoved the objects back into his hand. “You’re confusing me with your landlady. I’m not psychic. I don’t touch objects to my forehead and see the future. I’ll slip and see where it takes us.”

  “Then how does it work?”

  “Here’s your warning.” She pulled him back into the alley.

  This time, King managed to suck in a breath before the rollercoaster dropped, but he was no less wobbly when they appeared inside a hotel room.

  Double beds in golden coverlets and gaudy curtains. Far too many ruffles for King’s taste and the overkill
was intensified by the pinstriped wallpaper. He suspected he would have appreciated the wallpaper, maybe even liked it, had the décor been more neutral.

  “This is a grandma room,” Lou said.

  King scanned the room. A laptop sat on the cherry desk with curved feet. The cover had a DEA sticker on it they’d all received at an annual conference a few years back. He plopped into the desk chair, the wheels sliding under him.

  He opened the laptop and saw the screensaver. Brasso was on a beach, reclining in a lounge chair, his pasty white arms looking too vulnerable in the blaring sun. A drink the color of sunrise sweat condensation in his right hand. He smiled behind enormous sunglasses and an oversized hat.

  “Do you know his?” Lou asked, her tone impatient. What? Wasn’t he moving fast enough for her?

  King huffed. “I have no idea. Wait. I can find out.”

  Lou unplugged the laptop and wrapped the power cord around it. Then she moved on to a black leather satchel, lying against the rolled arm of a chair. Papers jutted from several pockets, and from where he stood, King could see the tabs of manila folders, much like the one Brasso had given him, sticking out of the open mouth.

  Lou threw the satchel over her shoulder. It was amazing, actually. The way she came into the room, quickly identified what was important, and rushed on. God, it reminded him of Jack’s hawk eyes.

  “Why the rush?” he asked.

  She gave him a look he knew well. It was a look his ex-wife had given him every time something came out of his mouth.

  “He had friends. They could show up. Or your friend could already be awake.”

  All true but King thought it was something else too. Was it the light in the room? She was still, her movements calm in the shadows. But in the light, she couldn’t move fast enough.

  The black face of her pager flashed in the lamplight.

  “Can you jump through your worm holes with technology without frying it?” After all, he’d had his cell phone in his pocket as he had slipped with Lou to San Diego the first time. He had not thought to ask or show concern until now.

  She followed his gaze, glancing down at her wrist. “I’ve never had a problem with this.”

  “Isn’t a computer a little more complex?”

  “It’s turned off. We’ll be fine,” she said with an air of irritation. “What else are we looking for?”

  King wasn’t sure. She tossed the satchel stuffed with the papers and laptop at him. It hit him in the chest, the corner of the laptop catching his ribs.

  He harrumphed.

  Because she wants her hands free, he realized. She can’t get to her guns as quick as she liked, not bogged down by Brasso’s things. The idea struck him again, the bizarre absurdity that he was traveling around with a young, beautiful woman whose primary concern was her weapon. Not having drinks with friends. No dancing or shopping, or any of the other strikingly feminine interests his wife had when he met her—at about Lou’s age.

  There was a sound in the hall. A cart on squeaky wheels rolled past the closed door. King and Lou both held their breath until the person whistling Sunshine, My Sunshine rolled right on by. King smelled boiled meat. Pot roast maybe. Or stew.

  When she spoke again, her voice was much lower. “Are we done?”

  He adjusted the computer against his chest. “Yeah. No. Check the safe.” Something in his brain clicked into place. “If there’s anything else, it’d be in there.”

  She went to a coat closet by the entrance and slid back the mirrored door. Wooden hangers hung waiting on a metal bar that ran the length of the closet. An iron sat in a cradle nailed to the wall. An extra pillow and blanket wrapped in protective plastic rested on the top shelf. The safe, a metal box the color of bullets, was open, the door wide. It was bare. Nothing but shadows inside.

  “Let’s go,” King said. “Is Brasso going to be okay, if we go somewhere else first?”

  He wasn’t sure what the conditions for his cell were. Maybe they’d stuffed him in a furnace that would kick on and burn him to a crisp.

  “He’ll hold.” She turned off the hotel lights and left King in pitch black darkness. He stood there, heart pounding, desperate for his eyes to readjust. A sliver of light from the Quarter poked through the side of the curtain, an inch between the fabric and the wall itself.

  Then he felt her hand on his in the dark.

  “Do you know where you want to go?” she whispered. Her mouth was hot on his face. “For the password?”

  “Yeah,” he managed, half-choking on the word. The walls moved in again.

  The coaster dropped, and for a moment he thought he let go of the laptop in surprise. What would happen if he let go while they were in motion? Would the darkness gobble it up? Would the item fall into some space between one place and another, like coins between sofa cushions never to be seen again? Like the second sock that went into the dryer, but never came out again?

  Then the ground was shaking. No, it was his legs shaking beneath him.

  His eyes focused on an illuminated sign hanging above a doorway. It was the Saint Louis DEA office. The two-story brick building looked like any other municipal headquarters. Square. Practical.

  “What the—” he started. He hadn’t seen this building since he retired and it hadn’t changed one bit with its boxy exterior and rows of windows. The staggered positions of the blinds. Some down. Some up. Some at half-mast. They gave the impression of a man not quite right in the head looking back at him.

  “Isn’t this where you wanted to go?” It didn’t sound like a question.

  “I thought Brasso had transferred to a Texas office. But if this is where your compass took us...” He couldn’t question her sense of direction. She’d found the gaudy hotel room on the first try.

  “Will anyone be in there?” Her eyes measured the plain brick façade. A breeze blew her hair into her face.

  “Not yet, but some of the guys get here as early as four in the morning.”

  “What about cameras?” she asked, swiping at her eyes.

  “Not where we’re going. It’s an office, not a pawn shop.”

  She pushed him back a step, beneath the thick limbs of an old oak tree, and the roller coaster took another hill. Then they were stepping out of a bathroom on the second floor. He knew this bathroom. It had been a year since he’d taken a piss in one of these bleached white urinals while looking at the off-white and teal alternating tiles. But he knew exactly where he was the moment he saw it.

  The light flickered on as they stepped out of the stall. Lou pulled her gun.

  “Motion-sensors.” King pressed a palm against the top of her gun and pushing it down before she put a bullet in something. Can’t be leaving a bullet behind in Headquarters. They could analyze it in the basement for fuck’s sake and who knew what kind of trouble that would conjure. “It was part of the measurements enacted with last year’s budgets. All the lights are motion-sensor. Presumably to cut down on electricity consumption.”

  She hissed. “I hate motion-sensor lights. Get whatever the hell you need and let’s get out of here.”

  King took the lead, but before yanking open the handle, he grabbed a scratchy brown paper towel from the dispenser by the door. He used it to cover the handle as he yanked the door open. He doubted most of the unhygienic fucks he’d worked with had learned to wash their hands in the months since he’d left.

  Propping the door open with a heel, he waited, tossed the brown towel toward a waste bin, and missed by a mile. Lou crossed in front of him, sweeping her gun over the hall. There was nothing in either direction. The lights overhead clicked on again, and he saw Lou’s shoulders twitch. The hall smelled like a burnt burrito, the scent of someone abusing their microwave privileges. And the air was artificially cool from the overworked A/C.

  “Hurry up,” she said, squirming beside him. “We have to get out of here.”

  “Easy girl,” he said. He led her right toward the door at the end of the hall. “We’ll be quick.”
>
  King searched for little black globes protruding from the ceiling. There had been no cameras when he retired, but things could have changed.

  His shoulders relaxed when he saw the smooth, white tiles above.

  In the bright hallway fluorescents, the blood caked on Lou’s skin and clothes was even more horrifying. Lou looked like a victim from a slasher movie, who had dragged herself out of some hellish pit toward safety after watching all her friends get hacked up. She had said it wasn’t her blood, but no one would know it by looking at her.

  Her demeanor was far more solid than any victim, though. In this movie of his mind, he wouldn’t have been surprised if, at the end of the movie, it was revealed she had been the one who’d wielded the machete all along.

  The door at the end of the hall was locked, but only until King fished some keys out of Brasso’s satchel and started fitting them into the lock. The door popped open with the fifth key.

  It creaked on its hinges as it swung inward. The office was dim, but the moment he saw it, he knew it was still Chaz’s office. The desk was littered with sandwich wrappers and papers. Cardinals action figures were poised in a row at the front-most edge. Old paper cups with half-finished beverages were sweating rings onto computer printouts. The blinds behind the desk sat at half-mast, revealing the empty parking lot littered with symmetrical orange spotlights illuminating the pavement.

  Across from the desk along the wall was a giant whiteboard. The last note scrawled in green sharpie was dated six days ago:

  Brasso- Lieutenant wants to talk when you get back. Answer your phone, you fat cunt. -Stevens

  So, he’d been out of the office for nearly a week. One week, hunting New Orleans, checking him out, baiting him with false cases and pulling his heartstrings for remembered glories.

  The light started to flicker overhead as they stepped into the room.

  Lou growled and slammed the butt of her gun into the plastic switch on the wall. Sparks shot out, and plastic pieces of the broken socket rained onto the floor.

  King jumped back and swore.

  Darkness fell over Brasso’s office. The remaining light came from the orange spotlights outside.