Sunday Night – Reed
I can’t help but think that it’s like something out of the movies. There’s actually a big metal ring in the middle of the steel table and the chain on my handcuffs runs through it, making it hard for me to get into a comfortable position. That would have been nice, because I had no idea when the last agent told me to wait, it would be what feels like several hours at least. I can hear the door being unlocked from the outside, so I’m guessing it’s time for some more fun.
The room is about as bare as possible. In a way, I’m disappointed that there’s no ubiquitous two-way mirror against the wall, but those have probably been done away with seeing as there’s an HD camera mounted in each corner of the room, out of reach even if I hadn’t been handcuffed to the table. It and the chair are bolted to the floor as well. Yeah, I tried them, more out of boredom than any kind of optimism. Sitting with your own thoughts isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, especially when you’re doing that sitting in the interrogation room of an FBI field office.
The door cracks open and I realize I don’t have a clue what time it is; even if it’s day or night.
Des’ face is a pleasant sight, though her expression could have been better. She takes one step into the room and closes the heavy door behind her.
“Hey, beautiful.” I say, though I hear the exhaustion in my own voice. She probably does too.
“Cut the crap, Reed.” She says. “I just want to know one thing.”
I look at her, seeing the fire in those green eyes.
“What’s that?” I ask. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in a week and she honestly looks just as tired as I do. She looks like she has a million things going on under those fiery red locks, but doesn’t know where to begin. I decide to lighten the mood a little.
“Is Denny’s an option?” I ask, trying to put on a smile that takes a moment to come. “I’m not sure what time it is, but they’re always open.”
Des walks over, her face softening, but only a little. She sits in the chair opposite me.
“I don’t remember getting any Denny’s.” She says. It’s not much, but her mood seems to not be quite as black as it was initially. Humor is definitely one thing we have. She may not get good results from her dry wit and sarcasm, but it works on me. I’ve told her as much. Before.
“I’d settle for a trip to the can.” I say, leaning back as far as the handcuffs will allow. “At least I gave you that.”
She looks at me, and I can see the compassion that I know is in there. Unfortunately, I’m not sure if this is the same Des that I got to know during our time together.
“You know I can’t do that.” She says.
I nod, understanding. She’s the low-man on the totem-pole. I get that. Circumstances beyond her control, and all. Her face is still worked up with some emotion or another, so I try to get her comfortable with me again.
“So how’s Clark?” I ask.
This time, it doesn’t get the desired results. Her face just becomes more sour. It’s amazing how a person can be attractive in one mood and that all changes in a moment.
“Cut the shit, Reed.” She says. “This is serious. They’re talking about Patriot Act stuff, and I don’t know if you know what that means, but you’re in some deep shit.”
I fire back, my own emotions starting to get the better of me. I’m taking her harsh tone badly, and I know it. “I know what the Patriot Act is.” I say, clasping my useless hands together. “It basically says, ‘fuck your rights’ down at the bottom if I remember it correctly.”
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. “It’s 2:30.” She says, as if answering my earlier unspoken question.
“Night or day?” I ask. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you. I took a seriously uncomfortable nap earlier, my face pressed into the desk, but there’s no way of knowing how long I was out.
“Night.” She says, then I see the gears finally locking into place. Maybe she’s ready to talk about what she came here for. I’m not the resident expert on FBI policy, but it’s an easy assumption to make that she probably has nothing to do with my case anymore, except to eventually testify at my trial about holding her hostage. Hopefully she’ll include the bit about me not really being a willing participant. I know that’s a lame defense, following orders and all, but the group I work with aren’t the type of people you want to be messing with.
“Spit it out, Des.” I say. “I know you’re not supposed to be here.”
I glance up at one of the cameras and I see her eyes following mine.
“They don’t work.” She says.
Seeing the look in her eyes, I believe her, then laugh. “Fucking budget cuts are the shit, aren’t they?”
It doesn’t make her smile, unfortunately.
“You’re killing me here, Des.” I say. “I hope you didn’t just come here to stare at me and tell me how much shit I’m wading in.”
“That’s just it, Reed.” She says, her face softening for the first time. “They’re not interested in a plea, nothing. I’m not supposed to tell you that, though. They want you to turn on the rest, then sink you down in a dark hole. The current administration wants to be tough on illegal guns since they can’t do more on the legal ones.”
She kicks back a little, but I can tell she’s far from relaxed. “Like there’s a big difference between the two. This should be a DEA deal anyway, right?”
“They’re taking if from another angle to keep the case, but I’m not sure what. The kidnapping charge is a Federal case, at least.” She says, her eyes upsetting me so much more than anything else.
“You know where I’m at on that.” I say, defensively.
“They don’t.”
The simple phrase hangs in the still air of the interrogation room for longer than is comfortable.
“I just have to ask you one thing.” Des says, and I can tell from the look of determination on her face that she’s coming back to the self that I got to know.
“Yeah?” I ask, sullenly. My situation is really starting to sink in.
“Did you mean what you said, you know, before?”
A lot had transpired in the long hours that we had spent together at my house, and of those million or so words that had been exchanged, I knew the select few she was alluding to. The thought of what would become of her, considering my situation, if I answered honestly almost made me tell her a lie.
“Yes.”
Des’ eyes changed back with just that one word, and the woman I knew was finally sitting across from me. She leans back in the chair and reaches into her pocket. As she fishes around for a second, she leans in closer.
“Out the door, right, right again, then out the fire door. The alarm there doesn’t work either.”
She is already standing, flipping a pair of handcuff keys towards me. They clang against the metal surface of the table. “July 1st, that place you told me about.”
Those words are in my head in some sort of a limbo as she walks out, leaving the door cracked. Fumbling with the keys, they start slowly processing by the time I unlock the second cuff, knowing full well I won’t be following her. I’m trying to focus on the directions she gave while trying to remember the conversation she mentioned. I’m coming up empty as I round the first corner, ducking back quickly when I hear voices. Shit.
Not knowing how much time I have, I take the risk and glance around one more time. It’s clear, so I hustle down to the next turn, briskly peering around that one as well. The fire door is calling to me.
As I step out into the darkness into a grassy area, I see the fence that I’m going to have to climb, but that doesn’t worry me at all. What the hell was she talking about? Dropping the last few feet from the top, I’m marveling about how easy it was. Escaping Federal custody, that is.
My elation slowly wears into frustration. By morning, I’m doing my best to hitch my way out of what I can only assume is Milwaukee, but that is definitely easier said than done. Not an orange jumpsuit, of
course, but I know that I’m looking pretty ragged in the clothes I was wearing when the agents busted down my front door. It had been stupid for me to go back, but the things I wanted to retrieve held enough value to make them worth the risk. I had thought that it would take Des longer, but I had been wrong.
The convertible pulls off the side of the road ahead of me. Looks like an old LeBaron, top down. All I can see is hair blowing in the wind. The giggles tone down as I approach, though. The driver, apparently the oldest of the three girls, couldn’t be more than twenty, and I’m assuming they’re headed back to Madison following a weekend in Milwaukee. College students.
“Where you headed?” The driver asks, pushing some wind-blown tresses back behind her ears. I want to say ‘anywhere but here’, which is the truth. I take the guess.
“Madison.” I answer, using my most friendly voice.
The driver smiles. “Hop in.” I catch the desperate glance to the girl in the passenger seat, and she dutifully climbs into the back with the other passenger.
“You’re not an axe-murderer or anything, are you?” The girl already in the back asks, though the statement is hugging the borderline between being serious and joking.
“Hell, I don’t even have a bag.” I answer, sliding into the passenger seat and shutting the door. “Besides, it’s too early for all that.”
The girl gives a hesitant laugh as the driver pulls back onto the road.
“So what’s your story?” The brunette driver asks.
I try to put on my friendliest face. “I’m Cal.” I say. Reed Calhoun. I haven’t been called ‘Cal’ since high school, so I always figure the closest I can get to the truth, the better. Besides, it’s a lot easier to automatically respond to something you’re already familiar with. “Just drifting, really.” I say. “Hoping to land a spot in the music scene over there.”
That’s a lie, but at least I have some background in it. I played with a couple of garage bands back in my ‘Cal’ days, so I can talk the talk.
“That’s cool.” The driver says. “Maybe we’ll see you someday down at The Majestic.”
I don’t know the venues, but I nod agreeably. “That’s the plan.”
“Oh, I’m Darla, by the way. Those two are Cassie and Emma.” She says, trying to gesture the position of each with her eyes without turning fully around.
“Where are you coming from?” Emma asks. I’m having a little trouble hearing over the music coming from the dash and the constant wind in the convertible that sounds like it’s seen better days.
“California, originally.” I say. Like I said, as close to the truth as I can get.
The third girl, Cassie, leans between the seats with something to add. “I’m going out to Cali after I graduate.” She seems pretty pleased with herself, but is almost immediately squashed by Darla.
“Yeah, three years from now.”
The driver laughs and Emma joins in. “Follow the dream.” I say, smiling back at her. It seems to soften the blow of her friends’ ribbing.
Just two weeks ago I would have thought this was the start of a scene in an adult movie. Three cute college girls pick up a drifter. Googly-eyes and hijinks ensue. A whole hell of a lot has happened in those two weeks, though. Almost a complete one-eighty from the man I was before. As for today, I’m just hoping to get the hell out of Milwaukee, hoping the black SUVs I keep seeing are all just soccer moms and real estate agents.
Darla drives fast, but it’s not like I can ask her to slow her down. Explaining that I’m on the run isn’t really going to help my case. Anyway, she seems interested in me, if I can go by the furtive glances she keeps casting my direction as she drives and talks. Keep playing the role, Reed, I tell myself.
“So what are you ladies studying?” I ask. I try to pay attention to their answers as the last thing Des said to me keeps playing back in my head.
Monday Morning – Des
Cisneros had called me a little after six in the morning to let me know what I couldn’t admit I already knew. Reed Calhoun had somehow walked out of the interrogation room and was nowhere to be found. I think I had a rather good performance, cursing him out about how a person in Federal custody could just stroll out of the building; but I tried to deflect that anger away from him and more towards the budget from DC. There’s a lot of truth in that, honestly. We’ve been cut thin, both in manpower and in budget, especially for repairs, like the system running the security cameras and DVR. Honestly, the old Windows 2000 machine the antiquated system ran on was overdue for a blowup and that had happened a couple of weeks back.
“I can come in right away.” I had said.
Cisneros gave me the answer I expected. “You’re not on the case, Des. You know that. I can send over some guys if you want.”
“I’ll be fine.” I had said. “You need what bodies we have out finding him. Have you already talked to the locals?”
“They have a BOLO out for him, but I’m not getting my hopes up. I want you to stick close to home today. Maybe we can get some MPD guys to watch the house.”
“He won’t come back here.” I said. “That doesn’t fit him. He’s not the revenge type; he’s only in it for himself.”
I’m sipping on my coffee as I replay the conversation in my head. It’s mostly the truth, though the line about being in it for himself is stretching things a bit. The conversation I had with Reed last night proved that to me. The coffee’s not the only thing warming me inside and I realize it.
“Shit, Des. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?” I say aloud.
Ted doesn’t know what I’m saying, but the little Jack thinks I’m talking to him. I reach down, scratching the top of his head, wondering how I let myself end up in this situation. Clark had gotten it out of me, partially because of his insistence, partially because I knew it would come out eventually anyway. There had been a little bit of a dust-up when I insisted that I was fine and he should go in to work. Ever since what he refers to as simply ‘the incident’, the needy leash he has me on seems to have gotten tighter. I know it’s not his fault, but I still resent it inside.
My mind goes back to the previous night. It had taken a while to come to the decision that I made, but I hope I put enough thought into it once I had made up my mind. This morning’s conversation with Cisneros hadn’t given me any reason to think otherwise. While the camera system was offline, the key-card system restricting entry to the building wasn’t, so I had ended up just holing up in my office until I was ready. The thought was that it would be assumed that I had left at close of business and that there would be no swipe record to prove otherwise.
Just the one agent manning the front desk, way out of the way from where I needed to be to get things done. The lateness of it all had been Cisneros’ doing. Because of my background, little as it is, with computers, I had administrative access to our case log system, and Cisneros had been the last one to log out, just after midnight. I had given it another couple of hours just to be on the safe side. The hours had given me a lot of time to decide if what I was doing was right, and I guess I made my decision.
The phone is ringing again. Cisneros.
“Yes, Sir.” I answer, trying to play the perfect praise-hungry newbie.
“Still nothing to go on, Des.” He says. “I’m sorry. Without the camerass we’re pretty much screwed.”
“You got guys going up to Duluth?” I ask. We had had leads that the smuggling route went through there.
“Dawkins and Ellis are already up there. I’ll let you know. But Des…” Cisneros says, trailing off in the annoying habit he has; fishing for acknowledgement. I don’t give it to him.
“I’m putting you on leave for a while.”
I bristle. “You don’t need to do that, sir. I’m fine.” I say; but I’m already wondering if I said it just because it’s what I’m expected to say.
“You’ve been through a lot lately, Des.” He says, and I can hear the condescension hovering over me. “More than any new
agent should. It’s paid, so there’s that.”
“Alex, I…” I use his first name, even though I know I shouldn’t. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“It’s a done-deal, Des. Paperwork’s already filed.”
“Shit.” I say, choosing what I hope is the appropriate level of profanity. “Can you at least keep MPD from showing up around here? I’m trying not to make a scene in the neighborhood.”
There’s a pause at the end of the line and I can almost hear him thinking. “You’re that sure he won’t come after you?” He asks.
“I spent two weeks with him. He’s not coming here, even if he knew where I lived.” I say. The most honest thing I’ve said yet this morning, I realize.
“Okay. I’ll call the goon squad off. Have they even shown up yet?” He asks.
I cross to the kitchen blinds looking out over the street. “Not a peep.” I say, looking at the quiet suburban road; nothing but minivans and bicycles discarded while their owners are in school.
“Assholes.” He says. “Call if you need anything, Des. I’m serious.”
The feeling of relief is unexpected, but welcome. “Will do, sir.” I say. I see the call end before I can get to the red disconnect icon.
My first thought is of Reed and what I told him. Would he remember? For the last week or so, I’ve been the butt of a joke running around the office. Word is, I’m in love with the now-escaped smuggler. Could be that I haven’t said much negative about him, but it probably has way more to do with the first town I stumbled into after my ‘escape’ from his basement. Who even knew there was a Stockholm, Wisconsin?
I get it, it’s funny, but it bothers me more than it should. It bothers me mostly because they’re right, and I proved that by helping him escape. I say ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ into my phone, and the Google results page starts to load. Ted thinks I’m talking to him, and I reward him for his diligence by leaning over and scratching his scruffy back. This is real, though, isn’t it? The way I feel about him? Distracted, I spend at least an hour going through articles, though I know there’s things I need to do.
Bolo Page 17
