The Last Book. A Thriller

by Michael Collins

  The apartment was quiet and the air inside motionless. On her way to the bathroom to pee and grab some painkillers, she cracked the windows open. Despite the icy cold outside, in the dreadful absence of her children she needed both the fresh air and the sound of the eternal hum of life in the street to feel connected.

  Ten minutes later, her headache retreating, Sarah reheated leftover Thai she’d shared with the boys the night before. She listened to her messages. Two were from clients confirming upcoming interviews which she’d do through Skype next week. Another was from Nan on the first floor. She was looking for a sitter for late Friday afternoon. Her husband was away for the week at a conference and would be home late. Sarah knew Dabbling Dave well enough to imagine what sort of conference he’d be at, but that was their business. She quickly tapped out an email from her smartcom confirming she’d do the sit. It would have taken a second to wake her computer up and use her keyboard, but she didn’t want Nan hopping up the stairs for a chat. Sent from my phone at the end of her message would hopefully buy her some time.

  Just after she pressed send a message downloaded from Nan. It was quite terse, asking Sarah to forget about her request for Friday evening. Sarah shrugged. Maybe Dave, worn out, was coming home earlier after all.

  Sarah was on her feet and just about to dump her dishes in the washer and maybe pour a small glass of wine when her voicemail hummed with a fresh message.

  ‘Good evening, Sarah.’

  Not recognizing the soft male voice, Sarah stopped and listened for it to continue. As the wait lengthened, she began to feel slightly uneasy. She glanced involuntarily towards the window shutters, feeling slightly silly. Although her lights coming on would have shown she’d arrived home, nobody could see into the apartment. As the voice continued, she realized she’d been holding her breath.

  ‘You don’t know me, but I’d like to discuss a ghostwriting contract with you.’

  This time the pause was longer, as though the caller knew she was there and was expecting her to pick up.

  After several moments, Sarah heard what she felt was a trace of a sigh as he continued.

  ‘Sarah, I know you’ve had a rough day, and I’m sorry about your children …’

  Sarah lunged across the room and snatched up the phone. She felt an irrational urge to scream.

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘Who is this?’ she said, as evenly as she could.

  ‘Ahh, hello Sarah,’ the voice purred, ‘thank you for talking to me …’

  ‘Fine,’ Sarah interrupted, ‘but who are you, and how do you know about my boys?’

  ‘I’m sorry Sarah, perhaps if you’d turn your TV on.’

  Bewildered, Sarah searched for the TV remote, discovering it under a cushion where Luke usually parked himself. She jumped when the screen flickered, finding herself staring at her own face. Weak kneed and with the forgotten phone lying on the Oriental rug, she slumped onto the couch.

  Sarah stared in horror as video footage of her attacking Scott ran right up to her being forcibly restrained. With her hair everywhere and blood streaming from the gash on her forehead, she was a frightening sight. Luckily, above the sound of traffic, her screamed obscenities couldn’t be clearly heard. But it was obvious she’d completely lost it.

  Shriveling inside, Sarah turned the sound up.

  ‘… indicating that, depending on Mr Brooks’ statement, charges of felonious assault may be laid against his ex-wife.

  And now, we interrupt our regular news and cross to Chicago where …’

  Sarah flicked off the TV, her mind whirling. It had been an isolated incident outside the family court. How could anyone have known it would happen, let alone be there to video it? Shit, no wonder her neighbor, suddenly finding herself living downstairs from a raving psychopath, had cancelled the sit. Remembering her caller, she reached down for the phone at her feet. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was still rattled by him but, right now, she owed the man an apology.

  ‘Hello, hello.’

  All she could hear was a faint hum.

  On auto pilot she thumbed the phone’s controls until the recorded conversation played back. The caller had remained silent as she watched the TV and then, just before she’d grabbed the phone from the floor, he’d given a number to call and hung up. She still didn’t have a name.

  As the enormity of what had transpired began to dawn on her, Sarah felt her shoulders shake and her eyes begin to spill hot tears.

  The Boy

  Joey found him huddled beneath some discarded timber.

  ‘C’mon little man,’ he said, coaxing him out with chocolate. ‘I know you’re in there.’

  It wasn’t a hard guess. Joey had heard the howling from across the yard. It had now subsided to a snotty sniffle.

  ‘I’ve got a candy bar to share,’ he sang. He unwrapped the chocolate and inhaled noisily.

  ‘Aah, it’s your favorite.’

  Except when he was snoring in the small single bed next to his own, the boy hardly saw his brother. And he’d learnt from an early age that to wake him from his slumbers could have painful repercussions. Rarely, when Joey was in a good mood, he’d tousle his hair as he went passed. It was a good feeling and made the boy laugh, wanting more. One time his brother had come across him being bashed by the usual crowd and had meted out a little retribution of his own. The boy suffered for it later but it had been worth every second of the pain.

  They weren’t pals. Joey was so much older and almost out of school—somewhere he didn’t go much in any case. Nobody seemed to know where he went or cared. Mom told him to stay out of trouble and he managed to do just that for a while. The trouble came later—heaps of it.

  Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he peered out. The candy was real, dangling just out of reach.

  ‘Waddya goin’ to do to me?’ he pleaded, not taking his eyes off the candy for a moment.

  ‘Nuttin,’ his brother said, ‘just seein’ if you’re OK.’

  The boy’s mind raced. Was it a trick? He’d just caught Joey and Sharlene hurting each and Shar had lost her widdle. His brother should be tearing his hiding place apart in order to kill him right now, not being friendly. And the candy?

  ‘If you come out I promise I’ll give you all the candy and promise I won’t hurt you,’ his brother said.

  The boy, too young to understand but sensing a tone of desperation in Joey’s voice, knew that something important was up. The promises meant something too. In their home a promise could not be broken. Ever.

  He accepted the extended hand and allowed himself to be hauled free of his hidey hole. Still slightly wary he joined his brother sitting on a low wall and took the candy. Still sniffing, he ate greedily. He offered Joey a bite and was relieved when he shook his head.

  ‘You OK now?’ his brother asked when he’d finished and burped.

  ‘What happened to Shar?’ he asked, wondering how she would ever pee again.

  Joey looked at him curiously.

  ‘Happened?’

  The boy’s head whirled as he tried to connect the dots. He decided to shrug knowing the gesture could mean anything.

  ‘You think I was hurtin’ her?’ Joey asked.

  He shrugged again.

  ‘Look, little man, it’s not like that,’ his brother said, ‘it’s kinda …like …we was havin’ fun.’

  The boy got it. For some reason Joey was afraid. Afraid of what?

  ‘So …’ the boy said.

  He felt his brother relax a little.

  ‘So we keep this to ourselves, our secret—just you and me?’

  The boy nodded slowly. There was more—he knew it. He decided to test the water.

  ‘Where’s our Pop?’

  He heard a sharp intake of breath before Joey responded.

  ‘I don’t know, little man,’ he said without conviction.

  The boy shuffled off the wall.

  ‘I better get home then,’ he said, staring at the empty candy wrappe
r in his hand.

  He lifted his eyes to Joey’s.

  ‘I suppose Mom will ask me what I’ve been doing.’

  He saw Joey’s eyes narrow.

  ‘You little shit,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Get up here and I’ll tell you what you want to know. But first up you’ve got to promise me never to tell Mom I told you.’

  ‘Promise,’ said the boy, and meant it.

  7. Chicago

  Life’s a blast

  From a raised vantage point across LaSalle Street, Ben Cox watched the crowd swirling around outside City Hall. His experienced eyes, flickering across faces and bodies, weren’t looking for anything specific. He knew that after ten years in the FBI’s anti-terrorist unit, the bigger picture was important. He was waiting for anomalies, sudden mood changes, or a sense of immediate danger. Others in the team would spot the weapons and tag the noisy troublemakers.

  In the darkness, Cox didn’t stand out. Although anyone taking a closer look would have seen intensity in those deep-set, emerald-green eyes that marked him by professionals as a man to be wary of. There was a time when those eyes would crinkle with mirth and his laugh would be light and ready. But Cox had hardly smiled in the three years and four days since Julie left.

  When his FBI supervisors discovered that Cox, well out of his jurisdiction and in his private time, was investigating a group, and then one man in particular, he was out on his ear. Not unkindly, of course. Firstly there were evaluations, followed by psychiatric assessments and then a recommendation for extended sick leave. He had a personal axe to grind and, as an obvious liability, he was gradually pensioned out.

  Deciding to go private and, without the vast resources of the FBI at his fingertips, Ben rebuilt his network of information. But it wasn’t from scratch. A techie at heart, and with a little help from Alexia, a lifelong friend in IT, he downloaded a massive amount of data undetected before handing back his high security pass. Alexia now worked for him, along with three of his former team-mates. In all fourteen people were dependant on him and his company for their monthly pay check, plus a few part-timers when things were busy.

  It was a little absurd. Within six months of Ben starting up, government agencies were calling on him. He became selective and expensive and yet the work still poured on in.

  Ben never put his own investigation on hold. Before he left the service he’d discovered who was responsible his unending sorrow, failing to nail him when he had the chance. Before being dragged from the harbor with a fatal overdose, a snitch had pointed the finger at an ex CIA man gone rogue. It turned out to be Ben’s guy and he carried a lifelong scar from him to prove it. Finding him again was proving to be the hard part.

  This present assignment had come from an unexpected quarter. Juan Cortez, a friend of his from their academy days at Quantico and a rising star, had snagged a golden ticket for the White House. Juan wouldn’t give him any details of his work beyond that he was some sort of unofficial adviser in one of a myriad of intelligence chains that eventually reached the President’s ear. When Juan had called late last night, he hadn’t beaten about the bush. He’d rattled off details of the protest at City Hall and what he needed.

  ‘It’ll cost you,’ Ben told him.

  Juan had been unfazed by the price, giving him an order number and an email address for the invoice.

  ‘It’ll be paid the day after it’s received,’ Juan assured him. ‘And there’ll be more work coming your way.’

  ‘Sounds good to me, buddy,’ Ben said, thinking the invoice payment thing a bit strange. He was curious. Government departments never paid that quickly—in fact, quite the opposite. Before he could discuss the government’s unexpected generosity further, Juan jumped in.

  ‘How are you traveling these days, amigo?’

  Ben knew what Juan was really asking. They’d caught up only a few times since... since that day and although the first meeting had been a little awkward, Ben had appreciated the quiet and comfortable silences they’d enjoyed over a few beers, and if they’d had a few too many—so what? Juan had always seen him safely home before stumbling into his chauffer-driven Benz.

  ‘Good to go, my man,’ Ben responded, a little more chirpy than he felt. ‘I’ll email you a report on Chicago ASAP.’

  ‘Hold on, amigo. Not so slippery. Cara’s been asking after you. She misses you, although I can’t imagine why. You’re one mean hombre. It’s time you called round, my friend. It’s her birthday on Saturday so how about a BBQ at our place?’

  Ben’s stomach squirmed. The four of them had been close for years and Cara had become Jules’ best friend. The thought of being sociable again was his worst nightmare, but Juan was reading his mind.

  ‘You’ve got to start somewhere, amigo,’ he said, ‘and you know we’ll be gentle on you. I’ve even got a spare cousin I can introduce you to. She’s massively overweight and a little hairy round the chin, but she cooks a mean burrito.’

  Despite his bleak thoughts, a ghost of smile appeared on Ben’s lips. He knew Juan was joking about his cousin. The family was Princeton educated, in immaculate shape and ate healthily. And when Juan suggested a BBQ it would be catered—by the best. Ben grunted. He knew when he was cornered.

  ‘I’ll send a car for you at three, amigo,’ Juan said. ‘Hasta pronto!’

  *

  On the surface, Ben thought the job Juan had given him was heavily overpaid and a bit mundane for his outfit. By all accounts, it was just another demonstration. And there were so many of them now. Discontent was the order of the day and it was hard to pinpoint why.

  ‘What’s this lot got to gripe about, boss?’ his 2IC asked, shaking his head, mournfully. Angus was a dour Scot, dragged up from the rougher side of Glasgow and one of Ben’s favorite undercover ops. ‘The recession is over, Afghanistan’s sorted, so what’s to complain about now?’

  Ben looked out over the pinched, bitter faces milling around, asking himself the same question. He’d always enjoyed Chicago. The city had a hardy spirit and tenacity for life, shining through the most miserable of days—and there were plenty of those. Now it was all about complaints and dissatisfaction.

  His team had arrived at O’Hare and found themselves in a tangle of delays before they’d even left the airport. Watching in amazement as industrial disputes flared around them—baggage handlers arguing with management and check-in staff walking off the job—Ben and his people could only wait. He couldn’t get his head around it at all but one thing did strike him. At the airport, here tonight, and at other incidents he’d witnessed over the twelve months or so, there was a prevailing atmosphere of confusion. It was as if the antagonism he was seeing was undirected and totally random.

  ‘Smell that?’ Angus asked him, sniffing the air suspiciously.

  ‘Certainly can,’ Ben replied looking around. It was something his nose hadn’t experienced for a few years—the unmistakably acrid smell of cigarette smoke.

  ‘This won’t go down well,’ Angus muttered, trying to identify the culprit.

  He was right. Smoking had been almost stamped out completely. It was illegal to light up in any public place and, with massive taxation, it was prohibitive.

  Angus was pointing into the crowd where the pushing and shoving was more intense. Fists were being shaken.

  ‘Over there, Boss.’

  Ben could see two distinct groups. The smaller, surrounding one young man openly smoking the cigarette, was in defense mode, pushing against the mass of people surging against them. Fractured sentences rose above the noise.

  ‘…have our rights …bastards …kick the fuckers …it’s not fair …’

  Ben saw a flame flicker over to his right and nudged Angus.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, another one, what’s the matter with this lot?’ his 2IC muttered.

  Ben shook his head. Sure, he’d once been a smoker, right up until he’d met Julie. As soon as she recoiled from their first kiss, telling him his mouth tasted like an ashtray, he’d kicked the
habit and never looked back. A pack cost a fortune back then and a shitload more these days. And where could you smoke these days—not here obviously?

  Ben’s phone buzzed. When he checked the caller ID, he caught Angus’s eye and tapped his ear. His 2IC nodded. He’d be in charge of Jesse and Chico until Ben reappeared.

  Asking the caller to hold, Ben found a quieter patch of pavement around fifty metres from the chanting crowd.

  ‘Hello Juan, nothing to do today, but worry about me?’ Ben asked. Seeing the White House come up on his phone had irritated him and he let Juan know it. He knew the score, he’d be emailed a full report before the day was out. Calling during an actual operation was a big no-no.

  At first Ben didn’t recognize the faintly bemused voice.

  ‘Mr Cox, are you free to talk for a moment. I’d hate to take any of your valuable time.’

  Ben took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m certainly free, Mr President,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Mr Cox, you were highly recommended, as someone totally trustworthy and very discreet. Are we talking on a secure phone?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr President,’ Ben said, wondering why the hell Juan couldn’t have warned him. ‘My phones are all encrypted ZZ-Zero, I’ll turn it on now sir,’ Ben said, not knowing if the President of the United States had any clue that he was referring to a recently evolved and, so far, unbreakable cellular security system.

  ‘That’s good—ours are too and I’ve now done the same. Ben, sadly, my first duty is to tell you that your friend and mine, Juan Cortez, was killed last night.’

  Ben’s insides froze.

  ‘What?’