Hashtag Rogue

by Chautona Havig

  A call came through—brief, succinct. “Keith needs his medical history altered. Look up pneumothorax and create a history that shows surgical repair as the only thing that worked. Give him at least three instances. Now.”

  “Great. Medical. Not my strong suit.” That word “now” hinted that Mark needed it an hour ago, so he pulled out his phone and went online—author groups on Facebook. Inside ten minutes, he had four people who had medical histories close enough to give Tyler the search terms he needed. Five minutes after that, and after hacking into a rural Wisconsin hospital’s database, he managed to add everything into Keith’s records. Once they uploaded, any medical facility would see the updated information.

  “Aaand… done.”

  Another notification to schedule out future work appeared on one of the monitors. Tyler tapped in a date eighteen months out and typed in, “Remove pneumothorax references not connected with St. Joseph’s from Keith Shafter’s medical records.”

  “Fine. It’s convenient. I’d have forgotten.”

  An email pinged the moment Tyler finished with the records order—a notification from Dan French’s phone. Missed call from Liv Todd. He called Mark. Nothing. A call to Claire got him a frustrated agent.

  “What? We’re kind of—”

  “Tell Mark he has a voice message from Liv Todd on the French account.”

  Silence. “The what account?”

  “It’s kind of urgent, Claire. Tell him. Todd and French. He’ll get it.”

  He’d made it to Mark’s office door before he heard Mark say, “What do you have for me?”

  “Can I access—?”

  “Get it. Play it on speaker.”

  Ouch. Someone’s testy.

  The message came through half a minute later. “Hey, Dan. It’s Liv Todd. Look, I had some guy contact me. He said he had photo proof that my sister did not die the day they said she did. We met at the Fiddleleaf. I kind of thought he was you, but he wasn’t. Anyway, he just walked up, dropped a manila envelope on the table, and said, ‘Just watch yourself. That’s all I’m saying. Watch yourself.’ Then he took off! So, I opened the packet. We’ve gotta meet. This is weird stuff here. Call me.”

  That’s when Tyler received verbal confirmation that Mark wasn’t in Keith’s room.

  The artificial hush of the hospital sent Mark’s nerves on hyperdrive. Each time the double doors opened and the harsh whoosh of the fans that tried to blow any bugs out sounded, he jumped inside. Standing just to one side of the doorway, Claire twirled her hair around a finger, released, and twirled again—a sure sign of nerves. Just hers, or is she sensing mine?

  Their eyes met. An uncertain smile answered his attempt at a reassuring one. Too public—too soon. Her aunt would arrive any moment. Keith’s mother.

  Still, when she began to wrap hair around her finger again, Mark couldn’t take it. He held out one hand, ready to take hers, and the moment her gaze met his, he mouthed, Come here.

  Claire didn’t even hesitate. She was at his side, arms wrapped around his waist, head burrowed in his shoulder, fighting back tears. “I’m so scared.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “But it shouldn’t have happened. This is Keith. Are we sure he’s telling us everything? That he remembers everything?”

  The words stabbed deep wounds within him. Mark held her tighter, made a note to talk to her about honesty, and spoke the words he needed to say—the ones she needed him to say. “I’ll grant you that Langat got in a lucky kick. That was unusual.”

  “Right? I don’t see how that happened?”

  It would be harder than he’d expected. “Claire, until Keith tells us how, everything is pure conjecture. Still, he’s the best. So, if Langat got in a kick, it’s because something was off somewhere, and probably before he even stepped in.” To himself he added, I just hope that something wasn’t Erika.

  There it was… that slow, steady relaxation that assured him he’d said all the right things. But how many of them are lies?

  “True…”

  For just a moment, he thought they were in the clear. At least until we can talk.

  “Mark?”

  He stood there, eyes closed, arms wrapped around her, tension slowly fading. “Hmmm?”

  “Isn’t this a lot all at once?”

  She’d said it—the thing he’d been trying to force himself to acknowledge. Still, her input might be insightful. “What do you mean?”

  “Last month we nearly lost someone, this month we lost two, got a bunch of cases all at once…”

  And one of them appears to be bogus.

  “…Flynne takes off on some rogue mission, kidnapping Erika in the process…” She gazed up at him, and he knew exactly what she’d say next. It took every ounce of self-control not to kiss the next words away. “Hey, how did she manage that, anyway? Erika has way more skills than Flynne does.”

  “Don’t know.” That was the problem, of course. He didn’t know. He didn’t know how they’d missed that the Schmatloch case was probably bogus—but on whose part? With one arm still around her, Mark thumb-typed a text to Tyler. Check out Schmatloch. See if he has any gambling, loan, or other concerning activity. Before he sent it, Mark showed her. It would keep her mind focused there.

  “Oooh… good thought. Maybe he set up that other gal. What about Langat?”

  “Accident.” It had to be. The guy would be dead if Keith hadn’t acted, acted fast, and acted well. Then again, the safe house. Did Langat’s pursuers do that, or someone else? And Brent Knupp? Where’d he fit into anything? How? Why?

  The lack of answers proved the problem and provided the most unwelcome solution. A glance at her showed Claire watching the door. When a woman appeared, she stiffened and relaxed again. Obviously not Aunt Kathi.

  But when she looked up at him, all sense and reason fled. “I have to bunker. Come with me?”

  “What?”

  “I have a place I can go—work from. Safe.” So public, so exposed… but Mark couldn’t resist brushing her hair from her face and kissing her forehead. His lips moved across the skin as he murmured again, “Come with me.”

  “I…”

  Selfish words welled up—ones warning her that being connected with him put her in danger. Words that demanded she come where he could keep her safe. But that, of course, was a lie. He couldn’t keep her safe. He knew that now. Safer, though.

  “Where—?”

  “Can’t tell you. You just have to come. Once I get there, I can’t come out until we know what’s going on.” He could insist. As her boss, and as a necessity to keeping his agent alive, he could insist. But alone, locked in together for what could be weeks… “It could be a long time, Claire. But I can keep you safe there—as safe as possible, anyway.”

  Of all the answers or questions she could have given him, “When?” wouldn’t have made the list.

  “Maybe not today, but soon. Very soon. Tomorrow… no later than the next day.”

  “But Keith—”

  Truth time—hard, fast, truths. “Keith would be yelling at me for not being gone already—if he could. I should have gone instead of coming here, but…”

  Claire started to kiss him. Just as she stood on her toes and leaned in, she bounced away, dashing for the door. “Aunt Kathi!”

  Mark slipped around the corner and into the men’s room. Time to go. He shot her a text message. Be at the Harbinger place by 9:00 p.m. if you’re coming. Give my best to Keith and his mom.

  The sun set over Rockland in a blaze of glory Mark rarely got to see. He’d paced the length of the window wall of his living room until a furrow should have formed. Just at the golden moment, he paused, his forearm leaning against one of the frames and watched the sun cast its golden glow across the towers of glass and steel that made up the familiar Rockland skyline.

  An idea formed, but he waited, watching. Absorbing. Drinking in the moment. It could only be better if Claire had come.

  That wasn’t true, of course
. Many things could make it better—clients out of danger, Keith whole and free. Sol and Raina alive.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of them, of course, but the dying day, the moment of peace, and the realization that he faced similar danger for reasons he still didn’t understand, combined to press on him. An ache formed and swelled in his throat. It grew, forming roots and growing deep inside until it reached his chest. Each root wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed until he gasped at the pain of it.

  The first sob ripped through him before he could prepare for it. Mark slid down the length of that frame and drew his knees to his chest. With arms slung over his knees and his chin dropped to his chest, he shook, choked, gasped through each wracking sob.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He’d used his trust fund to form The Agency to prevent this kind of pain. He’d expected people to be saved from danger—from fear. Instead, even his own people were going home to their loved ones… in caskets.

  Keith would turn to his God—the Being that, if Mark were honest with himself, he believed in but didn’t trust. But what did one do when turning to God? What did that even mean?

  “Why do religions have all this jargon, anyway?” The question was followed by a hiccough and a huge sniff that sent him searching for Kleenex. Beside his chair, and next to the Kleenex box, sat the Bible he’d been reading when he stayed at the Harbinger apartment. At the sight of it, a thought formed.

  “Works in movies,” he muttered. And with that, Mark picked up the book, closed his eyes, fanned the floppy pages a few times, and jabbed his finger onto the page. I Chronicles 4:27 “Now Shimei had sixteen sons and six daughters; but his brothers did not have many sons, nor did all their family multiply like the sons of Judah.”

  “I would get something like that—something that makes no sense.” He started to close the book but stopped. “Unless it’s a code. Does God work in code?”

  As silly as he felt, Mark couldn’t stop himself from looking at Shimei to see if he could find any other meaning in it. Sixteen and six. That made twenty-two. Claire’s age? Even if it meant anything, what? Confirmation for or against a relationship? A reminder that she was legally an adult? A reminder of how much younger?

  Then again, it could be 166. But that number meant nothing to him. 1606? By the time he’d tried to work out Judah, Mark gave up. Once more, he went to shut the book when another idea hit him. “Okay, God. Did I hit the wrong verse? Maybe that’s the problem?”

  Just in case, he read every verse on both pages. All about the descendants of this guy or that—and how many warriors were included in those numbers. If it had anything to do with him, and Mark doubted that very much, he had no idea how to figure out what. “Keith would know, but…”

  He tried once more, feeling every moment like the fool he knew himself to be. This time, his finger landed on Daniel chapter eleven. Verse thirty-three. Mark read it aloud. “‘Those who have insight among the people will give understanding to the many; yet they will fall by sword and by flame, by captivity and by plunder for many days. Now when they fall, they will be granted a little help, and many will join with them in hypocrisy.’”

  At thirty-five, he stared at the words, shaking. “‘Some of those who have insight will fall, in order to refine, purge and make them pure until the end time; because it is still to come at the appointed time.’”

  Mark didn’t know what any of that meant, but it sounded ominous. He pulled out his phone and zipped a text message to Claire, asking her to leave the reference with Keith to see what he had to say about it. It wasn’t fair of him. She’d want to know why, and when he told her, she’d have hope. He couldn’t give her that hope yet. Not yet. Not now.

  A sigh escaped. “Maybe not ever.”

  Once more, he read the words. “‘Some of those who have insight will fall, in order to refine, purge and make them pure until the end time; because it is still to come at the appointed time.’”

  It sounded like Keith. He had insight into the whole God thing—and into Agency business. He’d taken a big hit. One might say he’d fallen but… why? So, he’d be forced to take the time to see clearly? Is that what God was saying—was doing? Or was it just some stupid, random verse about… whatever it was about.

  The secure landline rang in the other room. Mark groaned and dashed for it. Landline probably meant… “Hello?”

  Tyler’s voice held a note of confusion as he said, “Got a call from Corey.”

  Figured out that your brother is up to something, did you?

  “—says that her niece has gone missing now. Her sister-in-law is frantic.”

  As much as he hated to do it, Mark had to call. “I’ll take care of it. Thanks, Tyler.”

  “Have you heard anything about Keith?”

  “Not yet. I’ll call. I promise.” Silence hung there, as if asking permission for Tyler to say something more. “What is it?”

  “I just wondered… should we be at the hospital at all? If someone suspected Keith wasn’t dead, wouldn’t our people being there be confirmation…”

  All alone in his apartment, without any chance of offending Keith or Claire, Mark disconnected the call and shouted every foul word he’d ever heard at the top of his lungs. Once finished, he waited for Cosmic punishment, and when it didn’t arrive, he grabbed the phone handset again and dialed. “Brecham. Get Keith out of there—somehow. Send family home. Keep everyone far away.”

  “Is Rockland Memorial okay, or do we fly him to Louisville?”

  Mark gripped the handset with more force than could ever be necessary, took a steadying breath, and said, “RM is fine. Just move him. Now.”

  Nineteen

  Erika snored on the couch. Morgan watched from a chair, both arms wrapped in gauze and hopped up on a Tylenol/ibuprofen regime. Only the rumble of the ice maker and Erika’s olfactory symphony kept the house from being graveyard silent.

  Three sticky notes lay on the table, spread out in a perfect line of uncertainty. The green one read Stay. A pink one read Go. And the yellow read Stay but go to hostel. Flynne stared at each one, wishing she had an answer for even one of those.

  Leaving the area seemed risky. Tulsa was a possibility. She sort of knew the area and vaguely remembered a cabin her family kept near Skiatook. Surely, her cousin wouldn’t care if she took it over for a few days. Hands on her shoulders made her jump, but as Morgan kneaded the muscles, she relaxed. “Thanks.”

  “Where would you go?”

  Flynne almost told him—further proof that she wasn’t cut out for this agent thing. While she considered how to answer, she pulled “go” closer to her, flicking the bottom of the note with one finger. “Can’t tell you.”

  “What’s the point in going?”

  “To get away from Knupp?”

  It happened again. Every time she said or heard someone say that name, hairs rose on the back of her neck. “I feel like I should know him. I just can’t figure out why.”

  Morgan’s arms slid around her as he slid into the chair beside her. It nearly pushed her off. “Leaving puts you in likely wide-open places where you’re vulnerable. The city offers easier places to hide.”

  “But if he saw the car, he could, like, find us again. I don’t have dupsie plates like—” she choked back what she’d started to say and finished with, “—they do in spy movies and other coolio stuff.”

  Without a word, Morgan lifted the “go” sticky and set it aside. He placed the hostel one on top. Under stay, he filled out two more notes. One read, Move into main house, and the other, Morgan drives your car to lure him away.

  “Um… that’s a problem.”

  “Why?”

  She winced as she said, “It’s not my car. I borrowed it from the people I housesit for.” Even as she spoke, Flynne’s mind churned. “But you could… yeah… maybe…”

  “Is this where I tell you that I know you have to be working for some special ops group or something?”

  A giggle esca
ped. “You’re so wrong it isn’t even funny.”

  “I know what I see. This is your first detail?”

  Ouch… so wrong and so right at the same time.

  “Look, I don’t want you to tell me and then have to kill me or anything. I just want you to know that I get that you have to protect her. I don’t know why, and I don’t need to. It’s just—”

  She stopped him as a new idea hit her. “Wait.” Turning to look at him put their faces so close it seemed almost criminal not to kiss him, but she didn’t. The movies would make this a moment, and if it, like, didn’t mean I could get Erika dead, I’d do it just to avoid having to think about it.

  “Too tempting, Dortmann. Back away. We need our wits about us.”

  “You have no idea,” she began, “how tempting you just made everything.”

  He dragged a chair to her side and tapped his notes. “Tell me what idea you got and get your mind off more interesting ideas.”

  “So not cool.” But she did. “You could take the car back to Rockland—and cash. I have gobstoppers of cash. You could buy a good used car for cash and drive it back. It’d be in your name. No one would even, like, know!”

  As if ripped from a movie in the fifties, he took her hand, squeezed, and kissed the back of it. “I was getting concerned until you threw that ‘like’ in there. Whew!”

  “Not cool.”

  He winked at her. “You already said that.”

  The wink did her in. All the fears and frustrations of the past week… had it been a whole week? Almost. They culminated in an unwelcome torrent of tears. Morgan’s apologies only made it worse.

  “Hey, Flynne. I’m sorry. It was just a joke. I didn’t mean—”

  She tried to explain, but something about his tenderness—the way her game buddy became a source of comfort— turned everything into a soggy emotional release fest. “I—”

  “Let her cry. I’ve been waiting for it.”

  Flynne turned to the couch, and saw a blurred Erika sitting up. “Sorries.”