“I needed to — ”
“You needed to push the responsibility for Foley’s death away from yourself.” As I spoke, the logic of Moira’s actions became very apparent to me. “You knew that if the dots were connected, the lines would lead straight to you. So, Foley’s confession became his so-called suicide note and became a get out of jail card for you . . . or so you hoped.”
“Yes, but you must believe me, when I left him, he was alive. He wasn’t steady on his feet, but he was very much alive. I didn’t kill him.”
“No one has said that you did,” Mrs. Prosper calmly assured Moira as she gently patted the distressed woman’s arm. “As I mentioned before, Mr. Foley died of a stroke.”
“But whether or not you helped Mr. Foley to his heavenly reward, is yet to be further explored,” added Wagner, earning a grimace from Prosper.
“Did Mr. Foley offer any resistance to your request for his confession?” I asked.
“No. Surprisingly, he didn’t. When the drug started to work on him, I told him who I was, he began to freak out . . .”
“How do you mean?”
“He became afraid of me as if I were a ghost or something. His eyes opened wide; his body shook as if he were freezing. He started to talk gibberish, bidding me go away, and not to take his soul.”
“Not to take his soul?” cracked Wagner.
“Yes, that is what he said,” Moira declared. “So taking advantage of the situation, I grabbed paper and pen from the nearby desk and told him if he wanted to save his soul, he had to write about his murdering my parents. I found it perversely amusing. Because of his drug induced state, he was so willing to comply. I watched this murdering, cold bastard on the floor, on his knees dashing off the narrative of his guilt. After all these years, I lorded over the killer of my parents; I felt avenged. When he finished, I saw the cross on the nightstand, and I remembered the necklace that Foley took from my dead mother’s corpse. Without a second thought, I grabbed his confession, and before he could react, I took the cross, the symbol of ultimate love, in remembrance of my mother.”
“You left him on the floor when you went out of the room?”
“Not exactly. After I took the cross, Foley’s wits started to come back. He still was physically incapacitated, but his mind was coming back to reality. He mumbled to me to give back his cross, along with several obscenities. He suddenly leapt at me. He stumbled and got entangled in the decorative nets that draped from the post and ceiling in the room. In his stupor, he couldn’t manage to free himself from the web of ropes. So I left.”
“Did you go directly to your quarters?” I asked.
“Well, almost. I was in the hallway, where I caught my breath. I started to cry, I don’t know why. I felt relieved but also guilty. My body began to shake. . . .‘What I have just done?’ I asked myself over and over again. I thought about what had almost happened to me. I remembered about my parents’ deaths. I just started to whimper.”
“Ah, the ghost in the hallway,” I concluded aloud.
Wagner and Moira gave me a puzzling look, but Mrs. Prosper gave me a knowing smile. With no explanation concerning my remark, I asked Moira to continue.
“I then I heard noises and groans from Foley’s room, so I hurried to my quarters at the other end of the inn. And waited.”
“Waited for what, my dear?” asked Prosper.
“For Foley . . . Mr.Hograve, for the police . . . I didn’t know. I was scared, and I huddled up in my bed and waited all night.”
“But nothing happened,” I said, “until the following morning, when Consuela found Foley dangling in the ropes, and I got him out of them.”
“Thank you, Moira,” said Mrs. Prosper, stressing the woman’s name.
“Phil,” said Agent Wagner, “escort Moira back to the others. And Moira, please, don’t breathe a single word about what was spoken here.”
Mrs. Prosper also gave a series of hand signals dismissing everyone else at our little powwow, leaving only Wagner, Prosper, and me in the room.
When the conference room door was shut, Mrs. Prosper stoically said, “ I am sure that Agent Wagner will disapprove of what I am about to say, but it is not for her to approve or disapprove. Dr. MacKenzie, considering what has just come to light, I have a big favor to ask, and I’m afraid that you won’t like it.”
“A favor?”
“Well, it’s more of an offer, really; an offer that you shouldn’t refuse.”
#
CHAPTER 20
“WHO are you?” I pointedly asked the old woman next to me. “FBI, NSA, CIA, DHS, what?”
“A fair question, Richard. You are finally catching on. But I am sorry that I can’t give you an answer — at least right now.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both. Just leave it at that. But I can tell you this, your country needs your assistance.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you really are, or by what authority — ”
“Mrs. Prosper has the authority, Mackenzie, if that is your real concern,” said Wagner. “The rescue at the Whyte Post Inn, the helicopters, the National Guard showing up when they did and . . . finding you. It was all done on . . . her authority.”
That gave me something to think about. Mrs. Prosper mentioned again that she wanted a favor, or, as she had put it, making me an offer that I ought not to refuse. I squirmed a little in my chair, my skin got clammy, and I got a little light headed. She hadn’t even told me what this favor was and my stomach was already in a free fall to the floor. Whatever this request of hers was to be, my guts told me to have nothing to do with it.
“What is it that you want?” My mouth stupidly asked, overriding my body’s objections and good sense.
“Just to go back to the Whyte Post and give somebody this,” said the old lady as she handed me the thumb drive, which was reassembled in its disguise.
“You want me to bring this thing back to the inn?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Why?”
“I can’t say.”
“After all that has happened, you people want me to bring the drive back to the inn and give it away?”
“That is correct.”
“And you won’t tell me why?”
“Right again.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself or, better yet, get one your agents to do it?”
“That wouldn’t do, I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Prosper. “The only way out of this mess is you . . . It appears that you are, ‘fated to the purpose,’ as the Bard would say, I think. In any case, even if you do help us, we will be taking a chance.”
“Who am I suppose to give this to? . . . And ah, what do you mean by ‘we will be taking a chance?’”
“Your country needs you, Richard.”
“So does my wife. What type of chance will we be taking?”
The old woman slid back in her wheelchair. Her left elbow leaned on the chair’s armrest. She waved her other hand toward the door. Agent Wagner quietly and promptly exited the room, leaving the two of us alone.
“I am afraid that I have not been entirely honest with you, Richard.”
“Really? I would never have thought that my government’s representatives and employees would ever lie to me. I don’t know what to say other than I am shocked, Mrs. Prosper, if that is your name, I am shocked, indeed, very, very shocked.”
“Your sarcasm is not appreciated, Richard. We are on borrowed time. I want you to listen to me, and listen carefully. This file must be brought back to the inn, and, if it is not too late, delivered to a certain party. You are the only one who is the least suspicious who can deliver the file. Many, many lives are at stake and in no small way, our nation’s security.”
“Me? I don’t know what is going on here. This whole nightmare began because my wife wanted my company while she attended the fund raising committee meeting at the Whyte Post Inn. She said that we could turn our stay there into a romantic getaway. Romantic, yeah, right. No, I do
n’t want — ”
“This situation has long passed the point of what you want or don’t want. You think that your life is difficult now.” Mrs. Prosper’s stern, cold voice slid between her lips that were tightly anchored to her teeth. The image that came to mind was that of a snake preparing to strike. “Let me assure you,” said the old woman, “that if you don’t cooperate, your life will be one living hell. And the burning brimstone that will be thrown your way won’t just be coming from my associates. There are others involved now. They are much nastier than we are. So, my advice to you is to stop whining, do exactly as I say, and help.”
Lon Chaney, The Man With A Thousand Faces, had nothing on Mrs. Prosper. Whether it was the rambling, loquacious old biddy or the government agent or the senior citizen thespian, one never knew which of Mrs. Prosper’s many personae would step forward next. When I first met her, I found her annoying. But in that room at that time, she simply just scared me. This woman knew what she wanted and had the power to get it. I didn’t doubt that she could make any threat of hers come true.
I gave her request some consideration. I said to myself that I was as patriotic as the next man. Besides, whatever I was to do for old Prosper, couldn’t be as dangerous as what I just went through the previous day — right? So I asked,“What would be the worse thing that could happen if I do this favor?”
“You could be killed in the instant that you handed over the drive.”
“Really,” I said, followed by a hard swallow.
“But if we take advantage of the options we have, that probably won’t happen.”
“Oooh, that was not the answer I was hoping for. Will I have any protection against the possibility of . . . eh, well, against —”
“I think so.”
“You think so. Well, that just puts my heart at rest. But wasn’t that the same response the government gave to the astronauts when they asked about returning from the moon alive . . . ‘We think so?’”
“They did return if you remember.”
“Well, yeah, with one capsule burning up on the launch pad, killing three. And another craft blowing up on the way to the moon. Not to mention that moon trips were canceled after Apollo 17.”
“Espionage is as much of an art as it is a science, Richard. Though a painter creates a picture that she has envisioned, she never knows if the work is a masterpiece until it is completed and recognized as such.”
“So I’m just a what? . . . A picture?”
“No, I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s say an important, but serendipitous, brush stroke in a work in progress. But put your mind at ease, we will have a watchful eye on you during this . . . enterprise.”
Prosper’s words were not very comforting, but I reluctantly agreed anyway. I like to think that I went along with Prosper’s proposal because I was motivated by a deep sense of patriotism. Morgana, on the other hand, believes that I volunteered because my notorious run-away-mouth got away from my crowbar damaged brain, that I couldn’t think things through. In the end, I probably said yes to Prosper’s proposal because I was scared not to.
“I thought you would. I don’t like to be disappointed. Now you must be on your way, and, oh, you need a pretext for your return.”
“A pretext?”
“The exchange will be at the inn if it happens at all. But what can we use as an excuse for you to be allowed back there, now that the place is a restricted area.”
“You have some clout, just phone whomever it is that is in charge and tell him that I'm coming over . . . and don’t shoot me.”
“ Oh, if things were just that essay. . . .Your contact will be wary about your sudden presence.”
Not quite following, I asked, “Who am I contacting?”
“You don’t need to worry about that. He’ll find you.”
“He’ll find me?”
“We’ll put the word out; he’ll find you. That is not the problem. Our problem is how do we get you back to the inn, tactfully.”
“What if we say that I had the drive all the time and I hid it during the fire and that I didn’t have the opportunity to retrieve it when I left.”
“Not bad, Richard. Plus, Boswell had the bad guys think that you knew about the drive.”
“That’s right.” I then remembered how upset Morgana was when Bo said to our captors that I might have had the drive. “What was that all about?”
“You should have had asked her when you had the chance.”
“How is Bo . . . eh, Agent Boswell?”
Prosper stared at me blankly for a second or two, then said, “Your idea only gets to your contact, but not onto the grounds.”
She didn’t want to talk about Bo, so back to the task at hand.
Then an inspiration.
“When I encountered my crowbar wielding assailant in the cellar of the Whyte Post, I found a necklace of sorts. Morgana said it was quite old. So how about that I could go back and pretend to retrieve it? My excuse being that this necklace is a special keepsake of Morgana’s which was given to her by her great aunt.”
Mrs. Prosper reached into her large pocketbook that was with her in the wheelchair and pulled out from it a manila envelope. She spilled its contents onto the table — my wallet, my five-year-old cell phone, my watch and the necklace.
“You mean this,” said Mrs. Prosper as she pushed the necklace to me.
“Yes,” I said — I was beyond the point to bother to ask how or why she had my stuff. I only asked if I could have it back.
“Yes, of course, but I don’t think the lost necklace ruse is a good enough excuse for you to be permitted at the inn.”
“But my brother, the sheriff, a very sympathetic brother-in-law, could perhaps threaten to make a big stink about the Feds interfering with the local authorities. He could call the newspapers. The local radio station could get involved.” I started to put my things into my pants pockets
“So your brother goes with you?”
“If need be. And in the process, let’s say, I pretend to retrieve the file at the inn. Would that work?”
“It may, Dr. MacKenzie, it just may work. If we spread the word just the right way, and with some luck. . . .” I saw a devilish twinkle in her eyes. “You are quite a fiction monger, Dr Mackenzie.”
“Thank you. Family lore has me distantly related to Nathaniel Hawthorne, a true spinner of tales par excellence, and that I have listened to every possible twisted and fabricated excuse told by guilty high school students pleading their innocence. With a pedigree and history as I have, I should be able to do this. Besides, I have had a crash course by a master of prevarication.”
“Oh, and who may that be?”
“ You.”
“Me?” she said in mock surprise.
“Yes, you. It is said that best lies are the ones which are grounded in as much of the truth as is possible.”
“That is so very, very true.”
Mrs. Prosper asked Wagner to return. The two women went into a private huddle. When they broke, Wagner asked me, “Are you well enough to go on this little trip, MacKenzie?”
I simply replied, “Nothing that a nice walk through a burnt out hotel couldn’t cure.”
“Good,” said Prosper. “There isn’t much time. We must get you and your brother out to the inn. And I must let out the word that the two of you are coming.”
During the next few minutes, Wagner and Prosper barked so many do’s and don’ts to me about my visit to the inn that they made my head spin. To sum it all up, I was instructed to act naturally, just be me. I was to behave as if I was actually looking for the necklace, and in this charade, pretend to find the thumb drive. I was to speak to anyone at the inn as I normally would do considering the circumstances — I knew that these pointers were more easily said than done.
But as Wagner and Prosper talked, I kept wondering about the person to whom was I supposed to give the drive, and why was I giving the drive away in the first place? When I asked Prosper and Wagner about my concer
ns, they would not say. I was simply told that I didn’t need to know. In fact, Wagner said that I probably knew too much already and that I posed a possible danger to the operation. Mrs. Prosper disagreed and insisted that I had to be used — there wasn’t time for any alternative solution.
Another disturbing factor was that I was not the only person on this mission to be left in the dark. Mrs. Prosper’s directives had put me in a very awkward position when it came to Kyle. My brother was not to know that I had the drive. As far as Kyle was concerned, the only purpose of our trip was to find the necklace. Mrs. Prosper’s warned me that if my brother knew that I had the drive with me, his life might be put into danger.
Her last words of advice to me were enigmatic. “Remember, there is no real privacy anymore, Dr. MacKenzie. Speak little, observe everything, and listen. Know this, and this also, trust no one. Do as I say, and you will be safe.”
I never had a chance to ask her to explain with specificity what she meant. Our chat came to an end with a knock on the door followed by several agents entering the room. Prosper and Wagner instructed them in some indecipherable Federal agent lingo. I was escorted, without my wheelchair, by Wagner and two of her accomplices out of the room, through a side door of the center, and to an awaiting green SUV. Without a word to Morgana about my leaving, I knew I would have a lot of explaining to do when I came back — if I came back.
Wagner pulled me aside and reiterated my instructions, “Be sincere when you talk to security teams. Otherwise, you won’t be able to get onto the grounds. And, whatever you do, you don’t try to sneak in. That could prove to be very unhealthy.”
“But didn’t you tell your, eh, colleagues that I was coming?”
“Field agents operate on a need-to-know basis. My advice to you is to assume that they know nothing; keep it that way and play it from there. Persuade them to let you get to the inn. Once you are there, deliver the package.”
“To whom?”
“The person who wants it, of course. And, remember, don’t tell anyone what you are actually doing. This is for their good and yours. Good luck, Dr. MacKenzie.”
FATED TO THE PURPOSE (Richard and Morgana MacKenzie Mysteries Book 2) Page 25
