River of Secrets

by Roger Johns

  It sounded again. Only this time it was a louder, more insistent, ripping noise.

  She heard Mason’s voice again. It took on an urgent tone and then went quiet. Wallace heard the bedroom door open.

  Mason appeared in the archway that led from the dining nook into the kitchen. With one hand, Wallace reached out and pulled him into the kitchen with her. She raised a silencing finger to her lips.

  Something thudded dully onto the floor in the living room.

  A baffled expression took over Mason’s face. He tried to pull away in the direction of the sound, but Wallace tightened her grip. She had a moment of vertigo as the situation took hold of her. She pulled Mason close enough to whisper in his ear.

  “Where’s the breaker box?”

  He tensed. “The wall, next to the fridge. Right behind you,” he whispered back.

  “Not one fucking sound.” Without letting go of him, she turned and pulled open the little gray door covering the panel. With a single swipe of her hand, she pushed every switch, plunging the apartment into darkness. Except for the hammering of her heart, the hiss and burble of the soup and the pale glow of the gas burner were the only sensory inputs she registered.

  Wallace closed her eyes and waited, focusing her senses outward. Mason’s chest expanded against her as he breathed. At the outer limits of her hearing she heard the faint scrape of shoes running on concrete.

  The door to one of the upstairs apartments opened and then slammed. Tipsy laughter and footsteps floated down the interior stairwell. The door leading from the building’s small lobby opened, and suddenly she could hear the laughter filtering in through the screened windows. The happy sounds moved steadily toward the street.

  “Someone cut the screen on one of the front windows and dropped something inside.”

  Silently, Mason opened the cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a flashlight. On his hands and knees, he peeked around the doorframe. The glow from the streetlamp highlighted a ten-inch slit in the screen. He swept the beam of the flashlight along the baseboards beneath the front windows and let out a long, slow breath. “Someone is sending you a message. Lucky us, it’s not the explosive kind.”

  Wallace looked around the doorframe to where Mason was shining his flashlight. A noose fashioned from yellow nylon rope sat on the floor below the cut.

  “Shit.” She reversed into the kitchen and stood with her back against the refrigerator.

  “Indeed.” Mason extinguished the flashlight. “Somebody knew you were here. You’re being followed.”

  Wallace pulled open the refrigerator door and shoved the pot of soup inside, and then she reached over and turned off the gas.

  “We’re getting out of here.” Her eyes were adjusting to the low light. She could see Mason in deep, shadowy grayscale.

  “We need a plan to shake off anyone who might want to follow you.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  Mason slipped from the kitchen and disappeared in the direction of his bedroom. “I’ll throw some stuff into a bag. Meet me at the side door.”

  “I’m going to flip the breakers back in a minute,” she whispered. “So don’t switch on any lights.”

  Wallace moved quietly into the front room. Standing to the sides of the windows, she pulled them down and latched them and then drew the curtains. She fumbled around until she found the cord to the lamp and unplugged it.

  With quiet efficiency, she pulled her shoulder holster from the chair and fastened it in place and then closed her eyes, listening once more for any threatening sounds. All she heard was the shuffle of Mason’s shoes against the hardwood floor in the back of the apartment. She called for a taxi to meet them in twenty minutes at an intersection several blocks from Mason’s apartment.

  She stuffed her laptop into her shoulder bag, then moved quietly back into the kitchen and threw the breakers back to the On position. The compressor motor in the refrigerator kicked on, filling the little galley kitchen with a low hum, but the apartment remained pitch-black.

  “Ready,” Mason whispered from the dining area, a few feet away.

  Wallace met him at the side door. “You go in front of me, toward the back of the lot. When we get to the alley, turn left. After that, let me go in front.”

  Mason reached for the doorknob, but Wallace grabbed his arm and shook her head.

  Holding Mason back with one hand, she opened the side door, crouched low, and then peeked around the frame in both directions.

  “Now,” she whispered, waving him through.

  Mason slipped past her into the night. She pulled the door shut and tested it to make sure it was locked. She offered up a quick prayer of thanks for the clouds that blocked out the moon, and then took off after him.

  Once they reached the alleyway at the back of the lot, Wallace pulled Mason into a hard left turn and they ran for about thirty yards through the sickly yellow glow that fell from the ancient sodium vapor streetlight that extended from a utility pole at the midpoint of the alley. Abruptly she moved onto a nearly invisible path that led between two houses on the other side of the alley. They stopped and waited. From their cover, Wallace could see back into the dimly lit alley. No one showed up.

  They waited nearly a minute longer as Wallace watched and listened intently for pursuers who might have stopped short of entering the alley for fear of being seen.

  When she was satisfied no one was close behind, she tugged on Mason’s sleeve and they moved along paths she vaguely remembered from her growing-up years. Twice more they stopped and listened.

  * * *

  Ten minutes after leaving Mason’s apartment, they were climbing into the back of a taxi.

  “Baton Rouge General,” she told the driver. “The ER entrance.”

  “Somebody you know got troubles?” The cabbie caught Wallace’s eye in his rearview.

  Wallace nodded, twisting her mouth into an expression of worry.

  The cabbie bobbed his head and returned his attention to the road ahead.

  Wallace leaned against Mason. By unspoken agreement, they remained silent, keeping their intentions and their plans to themselves. Six minutes later she and Mason climbed out of the taxi into the bustle and clamor around the emergency room.

  They spoke little as Wallace led them through the maze of corridors and stairways that connected the different parts of the hospital, finally emerging at a deserted waiting room on an upper floor. Seating units with three or four seats separated by armrests lined the walls. They moved into the dim rear of the room and sat side by side.

  Wallace called her brother, Lex, and explained that he and his mother needed to go someplace safe for a few days. Then she turned toward Mason.

  “Why does this keep happening?” she asked after she ended the call.

  “Why does what keep happening?”

  “You being in danger because you’re connected to me.”

  “It’s a dangerous job you do.” He shrugged and smiled.

  “But it’s not your job. You took yourself out of the danger zone when you left the DEA to start your own company.”

  Wallace remembered the conversation when Mason told her about his decision. It was time to move on, he needed a new challenge, he wanted more control over his life, he wanted to be near her on a daily basis.

  All of those reasons were true, but they weren’t the whole story. The grim reaper had come uncomfortably close—Mason’s diminished left arm was a constant reminder of just how close—and lurked on the sidelines for a long time. He hadn’t put that reason into words, and Wallace hadn’t pushed him on it. She assumed that at some point, when he felt the time was right, he would bring it up.

  She looked over at him, and she could tell he knew what she was thinking.

  “I took myself out of the danger zone years ago, when I quit being a border patrol agent and became an analyst.”

  “And then you stepped inside my orbit and nearly lost everything.”

  “Hey, there are no guarantees. W
e both know that.” He reached over and took one of her hands in his. “And besides, I’m starting to think you may be worth the risk.”

  Wallace wanted to smile, but she couldn’t. With the fingers of her other hand, she reached out and touched his face.

  “I’ve been keeping something from you,” she whispered, her voice faltering.

  A perplexed look descended over Mason’s face.

  She faced away from him and raised the back of her shirt.

  “Monday night, when I got home. Someone was there to meet me.”

  “Whaaat?” He drew the word out into a long syllable as he took in the bruises. “Who was this someone?”

  “I don’t know.” Her eyes stung and a heavy feeling blossomed in her chest. “He said he had information relevant to my case.”

  “And the only way to get you the message was to beat you up?” His voice rose and he sat back, shaking his head.

  “He grabbed me from behind so I couldn’t see him. Knocked the wind out of me to keep me subdued while he said what he came to say. Then he kidney-punched me, so he could get away without me being able to follow him.”

  “What are the chances he’s the one who dropped the noose through my window?”

  Wallace’s face crumpled and her eyes started brimming. “I can’t bear to think I’ve made you a target.”

  “You should have told me the minute this happened.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Gently, Mason snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her close. Thank you, she thought. Please don’t give up on me.

  “Next time something like this happens, you’ve got to tell me. It’ll make me worry, but I’ll worry more if I think you’re hiding things from me.”

  Wallace nodded, pulling his arms tighter around her. After a couple of minutes, she was able to let go of some of her anxiety and she relaxed into him. When a wave of fatigue threatened to drag her under, she sat up with a start and turned to look at Mason.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asked.

  “I need to disappear for a bit.”

  “We both need to. I doubt that whoever’s on your tail is really interested in me, but they could certainly try to use me to get a tighter grip on you. I’ll just need to find a place where I can work while I’m away.”

  “That won’t be a problem.” She stood and strode to the other end of the room, pulling her phone from her pocket as she went.

  * * *

  “Our ride’s here.” They were waiting in an alleyway between a wing of the hospital and one of the parking decks. She reached down for Mason’s hand and pulled him to his feet.

  A maroon SUV idled at the mouth of the alley. The window slid down. Melissa Voorhees was smiling and shaking her head.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Well, it looks like you and me are becoming regular friends, Detective Hartman.” MaryBeth turned the key in the lock of the carport door to the little lake house situated on the east side of False River. “Although, I have to say, if you’d give me just a bit more notice, I could get myself prettied up a little better for all these girls’ nights out you keep inviting me to. And maybe we could start going someplace a touch livelier than, you know, vacant lake houses.”

  MaryBeth pushed the door open and stood to the side. Wallace and Mason and Melissa filed past, into the house.

  The sharp scent of chemical cleaner almost masked the faint mildew smell that all the houses near the water eventually picked up if they weren’t opened on a regular basis.

  “I feel bad about getting you out so often, after closing time,” Wallace said. “We appreciate you doing this on such short notice.” She turned to shake MaryBeth’s hand.

  “No problem at all,” MaryBeth said, giving the offered hand a perfunctory shake. “My husband never had any reason to stash witnesses in out-of-the-way places, before, but I watch TV. I know things can be different up in the city.”

  Wallace had instructed Melissa to tell MaryBeth that they needed the house to keep a witness safe from the media. They had chosen a place on the more populated east side of the lake so Mason wouldn’t stick out so much, in case he had to leave the house.

  Lights started coming on as Mason and Melissa moved deeper into the house.

  “Will we need to sign any more paperwork?” Wallace asked. “Or is everything in order, on the contract?”

  “All our ducks are in a neat little row. No worries there. And I know you don’t need me hanging around, so I’ll be heading out.”

  Wallace looked around the house. It was an open floor plan with two bedrooms opening off the main living area. The entire back of the house was windows that opened on to a screened porch. She walked out onto the porch. Dock lights were visible up and down the shoreline. Midseventies Steely Dan, barely audible, drifted across the lake.

  “Wallace?”

  She turned. Melissa was standing in the doorway to the porch.

  “I’m going to wait in my car, so you two can say your good-byes.”

  Wallace nodded. She wanted to say “thank you,” but that seemed inadequate for all the things Melissa was doing.

  “This is a good plan,” Melissa said, squeezing her hand. “I’m sure Mason will be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  She looked at Melissa, trying to think of a way to reassure her without sounding trite. “Let me tie up a few things with Mason and I’ll be right out.”

  “Take your time.”

  Wallace watched her walk back through the house toward the carport door.

  “Mason?” She stepped back inside.

  “Back here.” His voice came from the bedroom at the back of the house.

  She found him sitting at the little desk next to the double bed. The furniture looked like castoffs from a motel. His laptop sat open on the desk.

  “Grab a chair from out there. I want you to see this before you take off.”

  She trudged out of the bedroom and returned with a chair from the dining table.

  “Is this what you dug up on Oliver Harpin?”

  She turned the chair backward and straddled it, her elbows propped on the back.

  “On paper, Harpin is as clean as you thought, at least in terms of an actual rap sheet.”

  “Which may mean he just hasn’t been caught, yet.”

  Mason nodded. “His name, however, is very much on the radar in terms of his associations.”

  Wallace’s eyes widened. “He must be connected to some pretty interesting people.”

  “Allow me to introduce you to one of them.” He clicked a video into motion. “This is courtesy of a friend of mine in the FBI who’s part of the federal task force that deals with hate groups. It was taken at a farm way east of here, about twenty miles before you get to the Mississippi line.”

  The video opened with a wide shot of a man standing on a long wood-floored hay wagon in the middle of a large grassy field. The wagon was being used as a stage.

  Mason ran his finger over the screen, indicating the crowd in front of the wagon. “I’m guessing, given the number of people in the bottom of the frame, that the camera must have been about a hundred feet from the platform.”

  The stage was draped in red and black. The microphone at the front gave off a brief squeal of feedback as the man approached. He had an easy grace about him. The others on the stage with him kept a respectful distance. He wore jeans and a black short-sleeved cyclist’s shirt that clung to his chiseled physique like a second skin. With an approving smile, he surveyed the crowd, then he closed his eyes and raised his right hand, palm out, like a preacher calling for silent prayer. The crowd went still. When he opened his eyes, his smile was gone, replaced by anger. The camera zoomed in for a waist-up shot of the speaker.

  “Storm clouds are gathering, my friends.”

  The roar of the crowd drowned out his next words. He paused, his nostrils flared, and the curl of his lips hinted at the earlier smile. After several seconds, he motioned with both hands for silen
ce, and began again.

  “Storm clouds are gathering, and they are threatening to become a permanent part of our world.” He motioned for quiet again as a scattering of applause erupted.

  “This cannot be allowed to happen.” He looked down, drew in a slow, deep breath, then stared out over the assembly.

  “As the world around us changes, so must we. And the most important thing we must change is our attitude about certain matters. I have never counseled taking the law into our own hands. But in theory and in fact, each and every one of us enters this world a law unto ourselves, and we entrust a limited amount of our individual power to our elected officials. In return, we demand that they exercise that power on our behalf, to achieve our goals, to produce the decent kind of life we want.

  “But doing this is wise only when that power is secure in the hands of a competent government. One that recognizes and understands its obligations to we the people. One that is ready, willing, and able to use that power for its intended purpose and only for that purpose. That’s the deal. But what happens when the government violates the terms of the deal? What happens when the law is allowed to fall into the wrong hands?”

  He nodded holding his hands out, palms up, in a questioning gesture.

  “Responsible citizens must reclaim it,” he intoned into the microphone.

  The crowd erupted. This time the man did not motion for silence. He let the noise continue until it died out on its own.

  Wallace watched in uneasy fascination as the speaker continued, touching on all the mad, worn-out ideas used to justify violence in the face of social change. Something about him seemed familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “The power was ours to begin with and it’s our right to take it back,” he said in a quiet, even voice, stabbing his right index finger skyward for emphasis.

  There were scattered shouts of agreement mixed with the blatting of aerosol air horns.

  Wallace glanced over at Mason. He looked tired.

  She turned her attention back to the video. As the man on the stage continued his speech, the person running the camera occasionally cut away to zoom in on different parts of the crowd. It didn’t look like a typical gathering of the master race. Aside from a certain uniformity of skin tone, Wallace saw a few things that surprised her. Mixed in among the skinheads and the camo and the neck tattoos were a fair number of people—men and women—who looked as if they might practice medicine or be members of a country club. But the more well-heeled listeners reacted to the speaker with the same enthusiasm as their down-market compatriots. The spirit of the moment was clearly upon them all.