Trip Wire

by CJ Lyons

  But there was no movement from the front of the building. No one was leaving. No sign of Andre.

  Jenna’s vision darkened. She became blind to the men around her as they moved into action; didn’t hear the shouts and cries as they pushed the civilians back; ignored the stench of burning plastic. Her entire being was focused on the small square that was the building’s open front doors. Please… Her mind froze, unable to move past that single plea.

  Finally, movement: Andre carrying an old man in his arms, Morgan and Tim pushing Emma’s wheelchair—the old woman waving triumphantly—and a tall woman straggling behind, appearing stunned.

  He was alive. She breathed in the fact, the sight of his face more necessary than oxygen, and ran to him. “Andre!”

  Chapter Ten

  As soon as they were clear of the blast zone, Morgan bent low over Emma’s chair and whispered in her ear, “Cover for me. Tell Jenna and Andre to meet me at Pamela’s.”

  Emma nodded, patting Morgan’s hand. “You take care, child. Don’t let this jackass win.”

  “You know I won’t.” Morgan kissed her cheek.

  Emma began to fan herself with one hand while clutching at her chest with the other. “Help! I can’t breathe!”

  Morgan let Tim take over control of the chair. He surged forward, eager to play hero. “Is there a doctor?” he called out, as police and first responders swarmed toward them. “I think she’s having a heart attack!”

  The police struggled to contain the health care workers as they tried to separate Tim from Emma so that they could search the two of them as well as Emma’s chair. They already had Andre down on the ground, searching him, and were trying to control Kelly, who was screaming and flailing at the uniformed officers. Andre caught Morgan’s eye and gave her a wink as he added to the chaos. “That’s my Gram—don’t you touch her! She needs a doctor!”

  Morgan simply melted into the crowd, then kept going. Her car was blocked by news vans, but no worries, she’d come back for it later. As she strolled down the hill past several blocks of shops, people streamed out onto the sidewalk, craning to get a look at the smoke. “Did you hear that?” they asked each other. “What was it?”

  By the time she reached Pamela’s, the normally crowded diner was half-empty. Many of the people had either headed toward the bombing to quench their curiosity or fled away from the neighborhood, trying to outrace any chance of a second bomb. The TV above the counter was filled with a blurry cell phone video of Morgan’s escape out the window—but the woman’s voice narrating it with breath-taking intensity was Kelly’s. As the video ended, the camera cut to a newsman interviewing Kelly, still wearing her volunteer vest, her hair now suddenly mysteriously tousled with fresh dirt smudging her face.

  “Why did you do it?” the reporter asked, thrusting his microphone at Kelly. “Risk your life like that?”

  “Someone had to,” Kelly said, shoulders back as if she were ready to accept a medal pinned to her chest. “Those poor old people, they were helpless. Abandoned by the staff. This is why I volunteer—to make a difference.”

  And steal their drugs, Morgan thought, as she grabbed a table with a view of the door. The waitress bused it and took her order, and then Morgan got to work. The first thing she did was a background check on Kelly. The volunteer had a clean police record—no surprise, since no way would the nursing home let her volunteer with a vulnerable population if she had a criminal conviction—but her financial records revealed two previous bankruptcies as well as a rollercoaster of debt followed by large deposits.

  She dug deeper, looking for any possible connection to Jenna. Nothing. Was it only a coincidence that the volunteer had been there at just the right time? Morgan hated coincidence, but couldn’t find any proof otherwise.

  As she ate her chicken salad club, she scoured the video footage from Jenna’s office—both her own and Jenna’s cameras, searching for anything unusual in the weeks before the bomb had been placed early this morning. Nothing. Just hour after hour of footage of Tim sitting at his desk, typing on his computer, drinking his coffee. Ugh, how did he not die of sheer tedium?

  And what did she really know about him—other than he seemed immune to terminal boredom? Sure, Jenna would have run a background check, but not as thorough as Morgan’s. Timothy Crane, she soon learned, was forty-seven, born and raised in Portland, Maine, had been a manager at a local bank that got bought out by a regional bank leading to his move here to Pittsburgh two years ago, followed by a buy-out by a national conglomerate that led to his losing his job last year. Financials were clean, no serious debt beyond some medical bills, no criminal record.

  That was it, except a mention of a wife dying in a car crash almost three years ago. His social media stopped with her death—not that he’d been that active anyway—and best she could tell, his life outside work was as quiet and boring as his life at work.

  She’d already turned to other aspects of Jenna’s grandfather’s case when Jenna, Andre, and Tim arrived. Jenna and Andre joined her immediately while Tim talked to the waitress, giving her their orders and asking to be left alone. Then he strolled over to the table as if he owned the place, taking the seat beside Morgan and boxing her in. Worse, he ignored her glare—but Jenna caught it and smirked.

  “Did the cops find anything?” Morgan asked them.

  Andre frowned. “Devices in each of the emergency stairwells, hidden in fire extinguishers. Thankfully, the dogs sniffed them out and they were able to safely remove them.”

  “I meant, any clues?”

  “Nothing they’re sharing with us,” Jenna said.

  No surprise.

  “How about you?” Tim turned to Morgan and beamed down at her. He was freakishly tall sitting down even though when standing he was only average height. Like it was all in his torso or something. Or maybe Morgan was looking for excuses to not like the guy. She wasn’t sure why. After all, he was a middle-aged loser who’d been shoved out of one job and now was saddled with a hopelessly boring, no-chance-for-advancement new one. And yet…he annoyed the hell out of her. Which Jenna would probably pay him a bonus for.

  “Nothing on the office cameras. But I found something on the envelope.”

  “What?” Jenna asked, leaning forward so quickly she almost upset her water glass. “The police kept that secret, so how did this bomber know to use green ink? And the handwriting—it was identical.”

  “If it’s the same guy, why is he back after almost twenty years?” Andre asked. “And why target Jenna?”

  “Maybe you should think about flying to California, and getting the police to share what they had on the old case?” Tim put in.

  Morgan cleared her throat. “Or maybe you could listen to what I found.” They all turned their attention to her. “I’m not sure it is the same bomber. I found a copy of the piece of your grandfather’s envelope online.”

  “What? How? The police never released—”

  “The forensic handwriting consultant they brought in. He retired a few years ago and started a blog featuring his cases.” Morgan pulled up the site on her phone and showed Jenna. “He doesn’t mention your family by name, but he does have a photo of the remnants the FBI gave him to examine. You can see the green ink and enough letters—”

  Jenna was shaking her head. “No. I mean, yes, you can see part of the address, but it’s not enough for someone to fake. I saw it—the original, I mean. I almost picked it up, the handwriting was so pretty and yet so weird. But then my grandfather came and—”

  Andre put his hand on her arm as she trailed off. “Anyway,” she continued, “this scrap isn’t enough for anyone to duplicate it. It must be the same guy.”

  “What next?” Tim asked, obviously excited to be a part of the inner circle. “How do we protect your family out in California? Hire body guards?”

  “My mother would never—and Dad, he’d fire them, pocket the money himself.”

  “If you’re certain it’s the same guy, we could go out
there ourselves,” Andre said. “Force him to shift his targeting, maybe draw him out while we look into your grandfather’s case.”

  Tim already had his phone out. “I can book you a flight today—with the time difference, you’ll be there by four o’clock their time.”

  “Do it,” Jenna said.

  “Three tickets to LA—”

  “Two,” Morgan said. “I can’t go.” She hated it, being trapped here, all because while her fake IDs were good enough for most scrutiny, she didn’t trust them to get her past TSA. One more reason to work on creating a legit ID—or at least one legit enough to get her a valid driver’s license and passport. Oh, the places she could go with a real passport! She could take Micah to see every art museum in the world if he wanted.

  “Why not?” nosey Tim asked, bringing her back to earth.

  “Because someone needs to stay here and watch Emma,” she answered. Not to mention pursue the case without getting trapped in the tangled web of Jenna’s family drama.

  “I can do that,” he replied. “Happy to help.”

  Morgan scraped her chair back and snatched her phone from the table. “Maybe I have other obligations as well. Not everyone can just pick up and leave whenever they want.”

  “Except isn’t that exactly what you did over the summer?”

  The man was lucky it was only a phone in her hand and not a blade, Morgan thought as she passed behind Tim and his exposed neck. The perfect kill zone, that sweet spot at the base of the skull. It was right there, waiting for her…

  Morgan contented herself with brushing Tim’s neck with the tip of her finger, light enough to surprise him and make him jump. If she wanted to blend in with normal people, she reminded herself, she had to take what small pleasures she could.

  Maybe it was enough just knowing if she really wanted to…she could have. Easily. Happily. And quickly enough that she could have gotten away with murder.

  Chapter Eleven

  Morgan let Tim take charge of getting Jenna and Andre to the airport while she made sure Emma was situated and well protected in her new hospital room. Given Emma’s age and medical history, the doctors weren’t taking any chances, and had admitted her overnight to a telemetry floor—which meant no one would be able to get to her without getting past about a dozen nurses and constant monitoring.

  By the time Morgan pulled up in front of the Pittsburgh High School for the Creative and Performing Arts, she was five minutes late. It was Micah’s first day at his new school, and she knew how tough it was for him, coming to a different school for his senior year and not being able to graduate with his friends, so when he’d called and asked her to pick him up, she didn’t argue or ask questions.

  Crowds of kids lounged on the concrete steps and gathered on the grass, their body language typical of the supremely self-aware teenaged idea of bohemian cool. But all eyes were on Micah as he strode to the car, hopped into the passenger seat, and reached over to embrace Morgan and land a prolonged kiss. She was startled—neither of them was comfortable with public displays of affection—but she played along. And enjoyed it.

  A car behind them honked, and they parted. Micah lounged back in his seat and gave a lazy wave to his new classmates, while Morgan steered them. “Care to explain?”

  “What? A guy can’t show off his hot, sexy, beautiful, sophisticated girl to his friends?”

  “I’m guessing your new friends don’t know I’m younger than you.”

  “Maybe not. Let’s just say that thanks to you, instead of being the loser who spent a year unjustly imprisoned in juvie and who couldn’t graduate on time, I’m now the cool ex-con hooking up with a mysterious older woman.”

  “Mysterious?” She let the older part slide—age was irrelevant, as Morgan tailored hers to suit her needs at any given moment.

  “I kinda let it slip that you’re a private investigator. And that we met while you were undercover and I saved your life.”

  She’d actually saved his, but he’d returned the favor several times since then. “Micah—”

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t use your real name. Or mention your dad.”

  “So they all think you’re dating Jane Bond.”

  He quirked his lips in a smile, revealing a dimple that was almost always hidden. “Something like that. Only I get to be James Bond, and you’re more like one of the Bond girls.”

  She shook her head, holding back her laughter. If there was anyone less suited to the life of lies and treachery of James Bond, it was Micah. His every emotion was as easy to read as a neon light in the desert at night. Guileless. Honest. Brave and honorable and courageous. That was Micah.

  And every day she was with him, she marveled at her luck.

  “So how was school?” she asked. “Did you like your classes?” Micah was already a talented sketch artist, but he wanted to broaden his horizons and learn more techniques in oils, watercolor, sculpture, and the like. He was also auditing an architecture class at Pitt.

  “I think it’ll be a fun year. The math is definitely less challenging, or maybe those stupid summer school classes finally sank in. Oh, and I signed up for this cinematography class where you use advanced computer graphic programs to basically create 3D worlds like what you see in movies.”

  “Sounds great. I’d love to learn more about the computer stuff…” A childhood spent on the run with a serial killer father had left Morgan with an uneven skill set. She’d taught herself survival skills like hacking, security systems, money laundering, and close quarters combat techniques; had pursued topics that fascinated her such as anatomy, psychopathy, the art of the con, Stoic philosophy, and the history of warfare; but she had little knowledge of “normal” school topics like algebra or social studies.

  “How was your first day back at work? Any exciting cases?”

  For about two seconds, she debated not telling him about the bombings and the threat to Jenna and those she cared about. But the only times she and Micah had ever had problems with their relationship were when they hid the truth, usually to try to protect each other. So she shared everything—the letter bomb, the nursing home, Jenna’s grandfather’s death, even her frustration at being stuck in Pittsburgh because she couldn’t fly to LA with Jenna and Andre.

  “I mean, what if all this is the bomber’s way of luring them into a trap in California where I can’t protect them?” she finished.

  “You can still help back here. Face it, there are some things you’re better at than even the FBI, like finding strange connections between people or tracking down their lies.”

  “Maybe. But as soon as Jenna’s back, I’m going to have her start laying a paper trail for an ID I can use to get a passport.”

  “Yeah. Then we can go to Paris—see the Louvre. You can case the joint while I sketch the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo.” He drummed his fingers on the dash in anticipation. “From there we can go to London—the Tate and the British Museum—and Florence, then make it to Venice in time for the Biennale.”

  She laughed—Micah always knew how to make her laugh. Even after an exhausting day dealing with a deranged bomber. “It’s a date.”

  They pulled into his driveway, and she turned off the ignition. Some of their best conversations took place simply sitting in a car going nowhere.

  He reached a hand across the center console and rested it on her thigh, distracting her in a very good way. “Seriously, I’m glad you’re all right. You need to be more careful.”

  “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place to help out Jenna and Andre.”

  “His grandmother’s okay?”

  “Nothing can stop Emma. But I promised I’d keep an eye on her while they’re gone—I’ll probably spend the night there, just to be safe.” She remembered the card Emma had given her—in all the chaos she hadn’t had a chance to open it. She squirmed in her seat and checked her back pocket—it was still there.

  “What’s that?” Micah asked as she pulled the envelope out. �
�A love letter? Do I have competition?”

  “Stop. Emma gave it to me. I think it’s a birthday card.” She slid a fingernail beneath the flap.

  “I’ll bet there’s a crisp new twenty in there. We can go to the malt shop, maybe catch a drive-in movie.”

  “Still better than any birthday present I’ve ever gotten.” Which they both knew was none.

  He stretched an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him, the envelope caught between their bodies. “If you’d ever tell me your birthday, I’m sure I could arrange a very special party just for two.”

  She wasn’t sure why she was so reluctant to give anyone her real birthday. Maybe because it was the last vestige of her life before, the life she was trying so very hard to disown. So she turned it into a joke. “I don’t know. I do love my malts; I’m not sure you can top that.”

  “Give me a chance.” He pressed his lips against hers, and she forgot all about birthday cards and her past for a long moment.

  They were both flushed and breathing fast by the time they parted. The card had slipped onto Micah’s side of the car. Before Morgan could grab it, he snatched it away and opened it.

  “You know that’s a federal offense. I have the US Postal Inspectors on speed dial.”

  “Nope. It didn’t go through the mail, so no crime, no time.” He slid the card out. But it wasn’t a birthday card. And there was no crisp, new twenty-dollar bill. Instead, it was more like an invitation, printed on thick card stock. In a sickly green ink that was becoming all too familiar.

  “What the hell?” Micah scanned the words before Morgan could yank the card from his fingers. The color drained from his face as he turned to her.

  She read the card, focusing not only on the words but the intent behind them.

  You’re the reason why I’m here.

  You’re the reason why I still exist.

  Because of you I live and die every day without love.

  Because of you I hate and kill.