The Short Drop

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  “They wouldn’t knock.”

  “Well, the worst part was my mom was obsessed with the case,” Billy said. “It was on all the time, and she watched it twenty-four-seven. I was sitting right next to my mom when it aired the first time. They showed the security tape and at the end froze on Suze’s face. I had a goddamn aneurism. Spilled grape pop all over the carpet. Mom thought I was freaking because of what happened to my sister. I was all, ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s it.’ Mom burst into tears, telling me it was all right. How it wasn’t my fault. Gives me this big hug. I felt so shitty, but I didn’t want her knowing I was the guy.”

  “What happened to your sister?”

  Billy grimaced as if he’d meant to leave that part out. “Why do you think I fed you Kirby Tate?”

  Gibson sat back, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “Casper? It was your sister in his trunk? Trish Casper is your sister?”

  Billy nodded, rage settling over him like a toxic shroud. “We’re standing outside the supermarket, me and Trish. Waiting for Mom. She’d forgotten corn. Mom always forgot like three things. Tate, son of a bitch, walked right up and took Trish by the hand and just led her away. You know what he said to me?”

  Gibson shook his head.

  “He said, ‘I’ll bring her right back.’ With a little smile like it was our little secret. And when I looked confused he says to me, ‘Your mom said it was okay.’ And I just stood there like an idiot and let him take her.”

  “Hey, you were a kid.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not now. And what they say about revenge? It’s true. You wait ten years; they never see you coming. It was so easy. Such a gullible prick.”

  “Jesus, Billy.”

  “Whatever, man. Fuck him. My sister still takes antianxiety meds because of what he did. She’s got phobias they haven’t even bothered to name yet. Can’t go outdoors. Can’t deal with strangers. Can’t buy her own groceries. Last year, I dropped a glass in her kitchen. She wouldn’t stop screaming for five minutes. She’s never had a regular job.” Billy’s eyes became distant. “Yeah, Tate should have stayed in jail… where he was safe.”

  Gibson stared at him. Up until now he had had trouble believing that Billy Casper could be behind Suzanne’s disappearance or the hack at ACG. Billy just seemed too sweet. A little simple. But now, listening to him talk about Kirby Tate, he could see it. See the anger and calculating intelligence that lurked behind Billy’s friendly eyes.

  “How long did you say you kept her here?”

  “I didn’t keep her anywhere. How many ways do I have to say it? She stayed here for six months. By choice. I would drive up on the weekends and after school if I could come up with an excuse. It was a long-ass drive, so it was hard to stay for too long. I made up a job. Fake friends. Just to mix up my lies. But mostly she was here by herself. That was hard. Knowing she was alone. But she seemed to like it. She read a lot. I think in a way she kind of needed it. Time to think. She was always happy to see me, but I never felt like she was that sad to see me go either. You know?”

  Gibson nodded.

  “Swear to God, I felt like I spent half my life in a car. I couldn’t keep going to the same grocery store or pharmacy.” Billy laughed at the memory. “I had to drive all over Pennsylvania so people didn’t wonder what a sixteen-year-old was doing buying prenatal vitamins.”

  Gibson’s hand went around Billy’s throat and drove him back into the kitchen counter. The lie he’d been waiting on. “What happened to not having sex?”

  “What? No, man! We never had sex,” Billy coughed out as Gibson’s hand tightened its grip. “She was pregnant when she got here! Why do you think she ran away?”

  That was a thunderbolt that Gibson couldn’t quite wrap his mind around. It was like having all your assumptions unceremoniously dumped out on the road and watching someone back a truck over them. To realize how profoundly wrong everyone had been about Suzanne. He let go of Billy and backed away.

  “Sorry,” Gibson said. “I need a drink.”

  Billy rubbed his throat but didn’t move. “Probably still beer in the fridge.”

  Gibson found a six-pack of Iron City lager in the back. He took two and offered one to Billy. Billy wouldn’t take it. Gibson opened both bottles and held one out to Billy again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  Billy’s eyes blazed and then cooled. He took the beer, and the two men stood in the kitchen, drinking in silence.

  “Whose was it?”

  “She said some boy back home named Tom.”

  “What did she tell you about him?”

  “Not a lot. Just general stuff. She always changed the subject pretty quick. Honestly, I thought you were the father at first.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. The way she talked about you all the time. I just figured she’d made up the boyfriend thing to protect you.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me.”

  “I know. I know. You were already locked up. Math didn’t work.”

  “Want to know something funny?”

  “What?”

  “The authorities thought you might be Tom B.”

  “I wish,” Billy whispered under his breath.

  A funereal silence fell between them.

  Finally Gibson asked, “Was Bear… was she angry at me?”

  “Are you kidding? She kept coming up with ways she could get in touch with you. I was like, are you out of your mind? He’s on trial. You got the whole world hunting for you, and you want to risk sending secret messages to some dude in jail?” Billy put up his hands. “No offense.”

  Gibson waved him off. “None taken.”

  “Why would she be mad at you?”

  “For going after her dad.”

  “Nah, man. She fucking loved you. Made me jealous. It was like… well, you could just see it. And anyway, she wasn’t what you’d call her dad’s biggest fan.”

  “Really?” That wasn’t how Gibson remembered it at all. “Do you think Lombard knew? That she was pregnant?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Suze wasn’t showing when she left. But I know she was real scared of what he’d do if he found out. How he’d go insane. Guy has a temper, apparently. She talked about how all he cared about was his career. What he’d make her do if he found out. About the baby. That’s why she had to get away from him.”

  Gibson played out the story in his mind. Bear gets pregnant by her boyfriend, the mysterious Tom B., and decides to run out of fear for what Lombard would do if he found out. That much sounded plausible. But why enlist the help of Billy and not her boyfriend, Tom B.? Did Tom even know he was a father? Or was that exactly why he hadn’t come forward?

  “So where are they now? Where’s Suzanne? Where’s the baby?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Billy. It’s a hell of a story so far, but you need a better ending.”

  Billy went to the fridge and took another beer and drank it, his back to Gibson, without taking a breath. Gibson watched him put the empty on the counter and drink another. Then he wheeled around and glared at Gibson, fire returning to his eyes.

  “Listen, if I knew what happened to Suze, do you think you’d be here now? Why would I need you if I knew? I didn’t risk exposure, didn’t risk my life hacking into ACG so we could share this tender moment. I did it because I don’t know what happened to her, and it’s killing me. I loved her, man, but I failed her. I couldn’t take care of her like I said I would. Her baby—something wasn’t right. The last month she was always uncomfortable. She tried to hide it, but there was blood. She couldn’t get around, you know? I didn’t know what to do for her. Leaving her alone killed me. I wanted to take her to a hospital. I begged her so many times, but she was so damn stubborn.”

  Billy was weeping now.

  “I got her a disposable phone to call m
e in case of emergencies. One night I get a message.” Billy stopped, trying to compose himself, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Her voice is real soft. She says she loves me, and she’s sorry. ‘They promised to help me,’ she says. That’s it. I called back but the phone just rang and rang. Don’t you get it? I couldn’t help her so she called someone who could. And they came and they took her away. But wherever they took her, it wasn’t home. Right? I kept expecting to see a ‘missing girl reunited with family’ story on the news. But ten years and nada. So, I mean, where is she?”

  “You thought George Abe took her?”

  “I thought maybe there was a chance. Thought maybe she called her dad, and he sent his henchmen to clean it up. Do damage control. Prevent her from embarrassing him. Look, I know how it sounds, but you’d be amazed at the paranoid shit I’ve dreamed up in the last ten years.”

  “That’s pretty damn paranoid.”

  “I’ll do you one better. The night Suze called me? That was the same night Mr. Musgrove ‘killed himself.’ After I got her message I drove out here, and she was gone. When I got back home, like five hours after leaving, my street was full of cop cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance. They were bringing Mr. Musgrove out in a bag.”

  “And you think it’s connected?”

  “I think Suze refused to rat me out. I think they assumed it was Mr. Musgrove who took her, since it was his house.”

  “You think Benjamin Lombard had your neighbor killed to prevent a political scandal? Come on, Billy. You’ve seen too many movies.”

  “Have I?”

  “And you think this mysterious ‘they’ was George Abe?”

  Billy shrugged.

  “So you hacked ACG to see if George was hiding something?”

  “It was the easiest place to start. Even I’m not crazy enough to hack the vice president.”

  “He wasn’t the vice president then.”

  “I know. I’m just fucking with you. But yeah, I went after ACG. Rattle the cage to see what falls out. At least something to point me in the right direction, but George Abe doesn’t know any more than anyone else. He’s looking for her just like the rest of us. I should have let it go then. I mean, I knew that. Eventually they’d bring in someone who would find me.”

  “We didn’t find you, Billy. You walked up and sat down.”

  “Yeah, but it was you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you, you were a sign or something. I recognized you right away. Remember the day you jogged down to the library? I was there, in my car, using the library Wi-Fi. I looked up and there you were, Gibson Vaughn. BrnChr0m. The legend.”

  Gibson put up a hand. “Give me a break.”

  Billy cracked a smile to show he was being a wiseass. “I don’t know… I saw you there, and I just had a feeling that you’d get it.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “No, but Suzanne did. She trusted you, and that’s good enough for me.”

  “That’s a big risk to take on a ten-year-old reputation.”

  “Maybe. But I’m just tired, man. I’m tired of hiding. Tired of being scared. One way or another, I need this to end.”

  “You still love her,” Gibson said.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Not the same way you do, but yeah. She’s not the kind of girl you stop loving.”

  “Amen,” Billy said. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Meiji.”

  Jenn played George’s voice mail for Hendricks. They looked at each other. She played it again, listening for nuance that she’d missed the first five times. There was none, but the meaning was unequivocal. It meant George was in trouble and so were they. It meant get to high ground and lie low. Don’t be heroes. Don’t go looking for him and don’t try to make contact. Wait for his all clear.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I think I hate Pennsylvania.”

  “What about George?”

  “Probably loves it.”

  “Hendricks. What do we do?”

  “What was wrong with getting out of here?”

  He had a point.

  It took the rest of the day and night to scour Grafton Storage of their presence. Hendricks bleached and scrubbed down the unit where they had held Tate. Jenn reinventoried their equipment in case their party crasher had taken more than just the gun.

  Empty storage units rarely catch fire, so they needed to paint a believable picture. It wouldn’t get much scrutiny unless the fire department was given a very good reason. Hendricks dressed the unit to look like a homeless person had been squatting in it and had foolishly tried to build a fire inside the unit. When he was satisfied, Hendricks struck the match and watched his Rube Goldberg arson project go up in flames.

  Jenn was already in the SUV when he slid behind the wheel.

  “I used to like Fridays,” he said.

  It took her a minute to do the math. “It is Friday, isn’t it? What a fucking week.”

  “Anything more from George?”

  She shook her head.

  “Damn.”

  “There’s more. You’re not going to like it.”

  “What?”

  “The phones at ACG are disconnected,” she said.

  “Jenn… That is not protocol.”

  “I know.”

  “Wait. All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  “Our direct lines?”

  “All of them.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Told you.”

  Hendricks sat in silence, digesting the implications. Jenn watched him work through it. They had kidnapped a man from his home, questioned him aggressively in an abandoned storage locker, and now that man was dead. The shooter had taken the time to frame Hendricks with one of his own guns. George Abe was in sufficient trouble to hit the panic button. Oh, and sometime in the last twenty-four hours, ACG’s phones had all been disconnected.

  They were in uncharted territory.

  There was a lot more at stake than a job now. Hendricks was going to have to decide for himself, and she was going to have to let him. She’d already made her choice.

  “To go forward or to run,” he said. “That is the question.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Running makes sense.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’m a little old to take up running,” he said. “I’d have to buy those ugly-ass shoes and those flimsy little shorts. I’m the wrong kind of black for that shit.”

  “You do have bony legs.”

  Each looked away out a window.

  “So. Where to?” he asked.

  “To Gibson Vaughn.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to look him up,” Hendricks said. “Where is he?”

  Jenn showed Hendricks on her map.

  “Why do I know that address?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “At this point, I’d believe it if you told me it was Hitler’s bunker.”

  “It’s Terrance Musgrove’s old beach house.”

  “Perfect,” Hendricks said. “But for the record, I preferred my guess.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Jenn said.

  George came to in a wooden chair, head down on a crude metal table. His wrists were handcuffed to a sturdy metal bar set into the center of the table. The surface of the table was cool on the side of his face, but he sat up grudgingly, and his chair swayed as if someone had taken a screwdriver to it, intentionally loosening the legs.

  There wasn’t much else to look at; the room was a standard eight-by-ten-foot cinder-block interrogation room. The brittle hum of the fluorescent lighting made George’s head throb like a cruel dentist was excava
ting his eyeteeth. His throat was tight and dry, his back knotted and bruised. Judging by his hunger, he’d been out at least twelve hours, which would make it, what? Friday morning?

  George checked himself in the wide mirror set in the wall. He didn’t look too much the worse for wear. Hadn’t had his ribs broken in transit. Thank you, gracious host. His tie was crooked, and it bothered him that he couldn’t straighten it.

  A door opened to his left. A man entered and sat opposite George. He placed a cup and a pitcher of water on the table. It was chilled and condensation stippled the sides.

  George gave the man a once-over. He was a neatly trimmed drone in an off-the-rack suit. They stared at each other like two ex-friends who had awkwardly bumped into each other on a street corner. This was the part where George was supposed to yell indignantly, demand a lawyer, make bombastic threats of the “do you know who I am?” variety. He was thirsty, but he didn’t ask for a drink. He had questions, but the suit was too cheap to have the answers to them.

  “Can we just skip the overture? Is Titus in there?” George gestured with his head toward the mirror.

  This time the drone’s eyebrow contracted slightly. George looked up at the mirror.

  “Titus. Is all the pageantry really necessary?”

  The drone’s eyes went down to the table, listening to instructions in his earpiece. He stood and left the room without a word.

  George waited.

  The door opened. A short, stocky man entered. He was only a few years older than George, but those years had been spent outdoors in some of the hardest places on Earth. The sun and elements had charred his skin, and the man had a face like steel wool, deep lines etched into it under a head of sparse hair the color of ash. A vivid scar ran down the man’s jawline from his left ear and disappeared into the collar of his shirt. A souvenir from Tikrit. The pinky and ring fingers were missing from his left hand. Stories varied on how many times the man had been shot, and George believed Titus preferred it that way. Colonel Titus Stonewall Eskridge Jr., founder and CEO of Cold Harbor, was in the myth-making business.

  “George.” Titus sat in the recently vacated chair.

  “Titus.”