Agent Out

by Francine Pascal

  “Excuse me,” Kim said to the man behind the counter. He looked about forty and had neatly combed hair and a small mustache. He wore a sweater-vest and a wool tie. “My name’s Kim Lau and this is Will Taylor—we’re federal investigators.” Kim showed his badge, smiling gently at the man. “Have you got a moment?”

  “Yes, Mr. Lau. What can I do for you?” The man smiled back, clasping his hands behind him.

  Nothing to hide, Kim noted.

  “We’re here to take a look at your records, if it’s not too much trouble,” Kim went on. “In particular”—he lowered his voice, looking behind himself before continuing—“the information that your customers provide when they sign up for your service. I understand that you collect data from your customers whether they show up in person or fill out the form on your Web site.”

  “Yes,” the man said agreeably. “Yes, that’s quite true, Mr. Kim. But unfortunately all of that information is private. You must understand that we keep our clients’ personal details in the strictest confidence. A business like this can’t survive if it can’t make secrecy an absolute guarantee.”

  Will stepped forward, holding up a sheaf of papers. “Sir, this is a subpoena issued in superior court,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “Please feel free to read it at your leisure, but I can spare you the trouble. It says that you’re required by state law to hand over any and all records that we ask for concerning your clients.”

  “But I don’t understand,” the man said, alarmed. “Why? What’s the reason for—”

  “This is a homicide investigation, I’m afraid, sir,” Kim told him. He had lowered his voice even more, but unfortunately it made no difference. Everyone in the room was pretending to do something else but clearly straining to hear what they were talking about.

  This is going to be all over town, Kim thought dismally. We should have interviewed him in private. Too late—my fault.

  “All right.” The man sighed, looking dismally at the court order. “What do you need to see?”

  “Have you got a list of your current customers?” Will asked. “Let’s start there.”

  “I know you!” said a female voice.

  Kim was surprised. He looked over and saw a young woman farther back behind the counter, standing with a stack of file folders. She was looking right at Will.

  “I’m afraid not, ma’am,” Will said, smiling brightly. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Oh—I’m sorry,” the woman said, flushing as she turned awkwardly away. “I guess not. You just looked so familiar.”

  She’s flirting, Kim thought distractedly. I guess if you don’t know how to do it any better than that, you end up working in a place like this.

  “Here you go,” the man with the mustache announced, hefting a large loose-leaf volume onto the counter. It was the size of a telephone book. “These are the female clients—we keep them as two separate lists.”

  Will opened the book and started flipping through it. Leaning over his shoulder, Kim could see printed-out lists of names, dozens and dozens of them, each with an identifying computer code. The list was alphabetical, so Will could quickly narrow his search, flipping pages looking for Terri Barker.

  Once we get her ID number, Kim realized, we can find out what other dates she went on. And maybe one of them is the killer.

  Now that they were actually investigating it, Kim suddenly felt like this was a very slim lead. But it was the only thing either of them had been able to think of.

  “Here we go,” Will said, stabbing at a name with his forefinger. Kim looked:

  BARKER TERRI F-48673869284

  “Let’s make a note of that number,” Will said, clicking his pen and writing it down. The man with the mustache stood waiting, still looking uncomfortable.

  Look at all these people, Kim thought, grabbing the bound volume before it slipped shut. He could see hundreds—maybe thousands—of single women, all somewhere in the state of Virginia and all dealing with this one office, trying to find true love. It was sad and hopeful at the same time, Kim thought, thumbing the book. People seemed willing to go through all kinds of—

  Suddenly Kim dropped the thought completely. He flipped the book back a few pages, wondering if he’d actually seen what he thought he’d seen. And he was right. There it was:

  HALLIDAY LAUREL F-4550112343454

  “Holy—” Kim grabbed Will’s shoulder, shaking it, and pointed down at the book. “Will, look at this,” he said breathlessly.

  “Well, if that don’t beat all—” Will took the book, flipping back toward the beginning. “Let’s see if another one’s here.”

  “K,” Kim said. He realized he wasn’t breathing, and he forced himself to take a deep gulp of air. “Look in the K’s …”

  Will was nodding. He flipped the book forward, scanning the names, until he found what they were looking for:

  KNIGHT ANN F 1121308855999

  Kim and Will looked at each other. Kim could see the surprise in Will’s eyes.

  They all came here, Kim thought dazedly. All three of the victims.

  The realization bowled him over. He was amazed at the sensation of having discovered a clue—a real clue—and having it pay off. In that instant he almost felt like he was drunk, but at the same time he felt absolutely alert and wide awake.

  “Sir,” Kim said, trying to keep his voice level as he turned back to the man with the mustache and the sweater vest, “we’re going to have to ask you for your complete client database.”

  “If you can give it to us on a computer disk,” Will added politely, “we’d sure appreciate it.”

  The man nodded gravely. “I suppose I can do that,” he allowed, nodding at them and moving off toward the SecondChance.com back office.

  “You haven’t cracked it yet, son,” Will told Kim, with that same twinkle in his eye, that misplaced euphoria, that Kim had been noticing all day. “Don’t get a swelled head or anything.”

  “No,” Kim agreed. “I haven’t cracked it. But suddenly it looks crackable, doesn’t it?”

  “We’ll see,” Will said, watching as the man headed back toward them, holding out a computer disk. “We’ll see.”

  WALKING INTO AN ANCIENT TOMB

  Too slow, Gaia reprimanded herself as she drove. Taking too long.

  It was one-thirty in the afternoon, and any hope of getting to Collingswood before two was fading from her mind. The problem was that she couldn’t risk getting pulled over for speeding. She could flash a badge, sure—but after the events at the motel and the roadside rest area, she had no assurance that it would work. She’d avoided getting apprehended—just barely managed to avoid it—twice today. Gaia didn’t have much faith in what might happen a third time.

  Even crossing the state line into Pennsylvania, Gaia had been concerned. It was entirely possible that a priority all-points bulletin was out on her. As she drove through the toll booth, smiling at the man who took her ticket, Gaia was half expecting the man to slap an alarm button and for cop cars to converge on her, sirens blaring.

  And if that happens, she had thought behind her smile, then I’ll have to ram the barrier and outflank them—and if it means a high-speed chase, then it means a high-speed chase.

  But Gaia had been tremendously relieved when the tollbooth operator had smiled back and waved her through. It was amazing that the FBI hadn’t mobilized to keep her from leaving Maryland, but she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. And now, driving northeast as the afternoon sky deepened into a rich, cloudless blue, she was forcing herself to stay within the speed limit. Because she really didn’t want this trip to end in a local jail cell. That wasn’t part of her plan at all.

  The land was changing again as Gaia followed the Delaware River, which was just a mile or so out of view behind the rolling hills that she could see out the Altima’s passenger window. She had stopped just once, quickly, to fill the gas tank and to finally pry open the laptop and take a good look at the Web site that Ca
therine’s email had pointed to:

  Welcome to the Home Page of the COLLINGSWOOD MUNICIPAL PUMPING STATION Built in 1921, the Collingswood, PA, Municipal Pumping Station is a landmark example in the history of American hydroelectric power generation. This beautiful monument is one of the five oldest pumping stations in continuous operation in the continental United States. Click here for a full history of this American institution.

  There was more. Gaia had taken a moment glancing over the rest of the Web page’s text and the big, murky photograph that showed the building’s low, impressive silhouette. But really the only part she cared about was the directions of how to get there. She had no idea what Catherine was doing in such a place or what it meant, but Gaia figured that the best way to find out was to just go there as fast as she could.

  Because that’s what Catherine wanted me to do, Gaia told herself firmly. That’s why she sent the unfinished e-mail—because she knew I’d figure that out.

  And Gaia wasn’t about to let Catherine down.

  Finally, at two-ten in the afternoon, as the sun was just beginning to move toward the western horizon, Gaia began seeing signs for Collingswood. She had copied the Web page’s driving directions onto a sheet of paper, but it turned out not to be necessary: the pumping station was visible almost immediately, a silhouette against the hills, looming impressively over the town like a castle or a cathedral. The Web site wasn’t exaggerating: the building was very impressive.

  Leaving the interstate, Gaia drove through Collingswood’s narrow, shaded streets, finding her way by sight—the pumping station was visible through most of the town. As she got closer, Gaia realized the building was much larger than it looked from a distance or from the picture on the Web site. It was a mammoth granite-and-concrete structure, low and wide, with enormous, old-fashioned curved windows cut deep into its front surface, almost like eyes in a face. As Gaia got nearer, she could hear the roar of the river getting louder and louder. She drove uphill, rising higher and higher over the town, seeing how the Delaware River’s tributaries flowed through the town and over the dams and conduits that ran beneath the pumping station. Even from this distance Gaia could hear the throbbing and humming of the pumping station’s machinery.

  But why bring Catherine here? Gaia thought as she drove the Altima along the chain-link fence that flanked the pumping station’s empty parking lot. What possible reason could Socorro or anyone else—political activists or terrorists, whatever they are—have be in a place like this?

  Gaia slowed the car down as she approached the gate in the middle of the fence. There was a small stone guardhouse that looked like it was as old and well built as the pumping station itself. An elderly guard in a drab uniform sat inside beneath a yellow lightbulb, reading a newspaper.

  Not particularly high security, Gaia thought, stopping the car just out of view and getting out. The air had grown cooler as she’d moved northeast, coming closer to the river. She got out her jacket and pulled it on, once again covering the shoulder holster. Locking the car, Gaia moved down into the shrubbery at the edge of the road, approaching the gate.

  Crouching down and moving quietly, she sneaked past the guardhouse, glancing up at the white-haired guard as she passed. So far as Gaia could tell, he didn’t have the slightest idea that someone had gotten right past him. He lazily turned a page in his newspaper, totally unconcerned.

  Once past the guardhouse, Gaia picked up her pace, moving across the nearly empty parking lot toward the enormous, looming face of the pumping station. She could feel the vibration through her shoes as she walked, and the closer she got, the louder the rhythmic throbbing and pumping noises got. The station, with its huge, steel-framed half-circle windows, did look like a face, an angry face staring down at her as she approached.

  The building had a set of ornate, carved double doors. There was nobody around, and the doors were padlocked shut. The words Collingswood Municipal Pumping Station were spelled in carved letters over the door. Below that, another carving was inscribed 1921. A brass plaque bolted to the wall read Official Registry of the American Landmark Commission, 1952.

  Great—but how do I get in?

  She was standing there, confused, for about a minute before she saw a small utility entrance to one side. It was so small and plain that she nearly missed it. Walking over, Gaia saw there was a small window set into the door. The window had been smashed, creating an opening large enough for someone to get their arm through.

  There was broken glass on the ground near the door.

  This is recent, Gaia realized. Somebody broke in here not too long ago.

  Are they still here?

  Reaching through the broken window frame, Gaia found the metal lever that opened the door. Swinging it open, she entered the Collingswood Pumping Station.

  Inside, it was nearly pitch black—and the rhythmic pumping and throbbing noise was much louder and deeper, vibrating from her shoes through her entire body, so that she could feel it in her teeth. Gaia waited a moment to get used to the darkness, but she couldn’t really. It was like walking into an ancient tomb—there was just a pale glow somewhere straight ahead, reflected from a distant window. The cool, dark air washed gently over her, carrying a faint smell of water and electricity.

  A flashlight, Gaia told herself helplessly. Next time bring a flashlight. Can’t you get anything right?

  And something else was on her mind, from when she first saw the smashed glass on the ground: Is someone else here?

  There was no way to tell. Holding her hands out in front of her, Gaia moved forward into the darkness.

  ONE TINY STEP BEHIND HER FRIEND

  Walking forward a few paces, Gaia realized it wasn’t so bad. In front of her was a cool, damp stone wall and, feeling its edge as she turned around a corner, suddenly she came into an area that was bright enough for her to see. Gaia looked around, amazed.

  The turbines were enormous steel cylinders the size of Greyhound buses, half buried in the vast stone floor upon which she was standing on the edge. The ceiling was far out of view overhead—the only light was weak daylight from the big windows on the building’s front. She could hear the splashing of the river’s water far in the distance as the teeth-vibrating hum of the turbines continued.

  Her eyes adjusted a bit more as she saw a row of normal-size doors off to one side. Heading over there, Gaia realized that there were administrative offices behind the doors.

  And then she saw something so surprising, so utterly unexpected that she had to blink to make sure she hadn’t imagined it.

  Hanging on the doorknob of the leftmost door was a bracelet. She could see it clearly from this far away even in the dim light: a silver band with a turquoise inlay.

  Catherine’s bracelet, Gaia realized, amazed again at her friend’s ingenuity. She recognized it immediately; Gaia remembered that it had belonged to Catherine’s mother and that Catherine wore it all the time. She remembered one or two times when Catherine had practically turned their dorm room upside down looking for it.

  And here it was, hanging from a doorknob.

  It’s a signal to me, Gaia realized. Suddenly she felt choked up again. Catherine was trying to communicate with Gaia.

  Gaia, please come help, she remembered.

  I won’t let you down, Cathy, Gaia thought, clearing her throat and blinking away the hotness that was gathering in her eyes. I promise.

  Lettering on the door Catherine had marked read Municipal Works Technical Records Department. Gaia pocketed Catherine’s bracelet and opened the door.

  Behind it was a small room with one other door at the back. There was a low ceiling and no windows. Closing the door she’d come through, Gaia flicked on the overhead lights, looking around. The room was empty except for a large oak worktable, a water cooler, and a desk with an older-looking computer workstation and a large freestanding machine that Gaia didn’t recognize. The computer had been left on, and, Gaia realized, the big machine was on, too—a yellow light on it
s face was glowing.

  Catherine was here, Gaia realized. The humming and throbbing of the pumping station’s machinery was still making Gaia’s body vibrate as she went over and awakened the computer.

  After a few baffled moments examining the machine’s unfamiliar desktop, Gaia realized that this computer’s main purpose was as a filing system. Clicking the mouse on various folders, she saw the categories for a tremendously detailed database network—hundreds and hundreds of technical documents, including building blueprints, sewer maps, subway station plans, streetlight power diagrams, water pipeline schematics.

  So what do I do now? Gaia’s heart was sinking as she looked through the folders. It was all very technical, and she had no idea where to start looking or even what she was looking for.

  Finally, when she was about to give up on the computer in desperation and begin searching the rest of the room, Gaia saw something she hadn’t noticed before—a small icon that was blinking in a corner of the computer’s screen.

  Clicking on the icon, Gaia saw a small window open on the screen, with a label that read PRINT QUEUE.

  Below that, the window had a list of technical documents, with dates and times next to them. And, Gaia realized excitedly, the most recent document was printed that morning, at eleven fifty-five.

  When Catherine sent the e-mail, Gaia remembered. She had gotten it at the Starbucks at one in the afternoon—but the date attached to the e-mail showed that it had been sent at eleven fifty-five. Right when that document were printing.

  Exploring the computer’s desktop some more, Gaia realized that the machine’s e-mail program was running; its window had just been minimized down to the bottom of the screen. Looking at the list of sent mail, Gaia fixed her eye on the most recent item:

  To: gmoore@fbi_quantico.gov

  From: admin@cmps.gov

  Date: August 23, 2005, 11:55 EST

  Subject: [no subject]

  Gaia rubbed her eyes, sighing with released tension. She’d found it: Catherine’s e-mail had been sent right from here—from this exact computer. Once again Gaia was just one tiny step behind her friend. Catherine had sat right here, in this chair, at eleven fifty-five and sent that e-mail.