by Dom Testa
Christina was there, absorbed in something on her tablet while she held a glass of wine. She looked up as I approached and broke into the smile that had mesmerized me from the first moment we met. I bent over and gave her two kisses, then sat down. I stole a sip from her wine and nodded in appreciation just as the server set down an identical glass in front of me.
“I knew you’d like it,” Christina said, taking back her own. “I also ordered the caprese for us to split.”
“This is why I married you,” I said, placing the napkin on my lap.
“Because I order well?”
“You order well, you’re an absolute wildcat in bed, and you don’t mind me coming home with a new face and body sometimes.”
We clinked glasses and each took a sip. “Speaking of which,” she said, “when do I get to try out a new model again? This one is getting stale.”
“Oh, hush,” I said. “When the lights are out all you register is my sparkling personality and dazzling moves anyway.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “This body didn’t register as much as the last one.”
I made a face at her. “Stop comparing. You’ll give me a complex.”
“That’ll be the day.”
This was routine chatter for us, a way to defuse what would otherwise be an incredibly awkward situation between husband and wife. There couldn’t have been five women in the country who’d tolerate being married to an active Q2 agent, and I’d found one of them. Christina Valdez accepted the fact that her husband was gone for most of the year and would often show up with a new identity after being killed in the line of duty.
I rationalized her sacrifice by remembering that she embraced all the time she spent alone. She was a world-class chef who’d vowed to never marry after a few difficult relationships early on. I came along and gave her the best of both worlds: a relationship that also provided the independence she craved.
The only way it would work is if we shared a common snarky attitude toward life. That was a perfect match.
Christina also had the comfort of her own home. We had adjoining two-bedroom condos on the 7th floor of the upscale Stadler Building. She could decorate hers the way she wanted, I kept up mine, and we installed a hidden panel between the two units that allowed us to visit back and forth without going out into the hall. It was truly a dream setup, especially for her.
Sure, we were common-law, but to us we were married, and that was all there was to it. Q2 generally didn’t allow agents to develop intimate relationships like marriage, so we’d stayed secret as long as possible. Recently Quanta had let me know I was shitty at keeping that particular secret. So my boss knew about the arrangement, but no one else. Not even Christina’s family.
She told me that was for the best, for my sake.
“Thank you for taking off work tonight,” I said as the caprese salad arrived.
“You leave tomorrow? Where to?”
“Santa Fe. Any recommendations from my chef wife for dining there?”
Stupid question. She rattled off four of them, then pulled out her phone to text them to me.
Over the next two hours we enjoyed a spectacular meal, some more wine, then shared a dessert and finished with limoncello. By 8:30 we were home, just as another light dusting of snow began.
We spent the night on her side of the dual condos, and I did my best to register well. Who knew if she’d ever see this specimen again?
What a strange life.
Chapter Four
Poole was true to her word. The rental car awaiting me in Albuquerque was nearly identical to the Mercedes SUV she’d arranged on an earlier mission. I made a quick stop at a Q2 safe house and picked up some of the tools I might need for this assignment, including a trusty Glock 18, my weapon of choice these days. Two minutes after ringing the doorbell I was back in the Mercedes and on my way out of town. It was almost 7 p.m.
The drive from Albuquerque to Santa Fe generally took about an hour, although I was in no rush and enjoyed the quiet time. My mind drifted back to a case that had brought me to New Mexico a year earlier. That one included a wild chase down back roads and ended with me barely escaping with my life, while at the same time planting a perfect shot through the heart of one badass creep. He’d killed four people and was preparing to off at least four more, all in service to someone who I wished I’d been able to take out.
Yes, the creep’s employer was my ultimate knave, the one and only person I obsessed over. The one man who never failed to cross my mind at least once a day, even if briefly. Like right now. The man who’d personally cost me someone dear. The man I vowed to track down someday in order to extract my own brand of Eric Swan revenge.
His name was Beadle. He was a master knave, if there was such a thing, and he was damned near impossible to find. Hired out by the super-wealthy, be it individuals, corporations, or countries, Beadle was ghost-like in his movements. I’d encountered him face-to-face only a couple of times, although it was possible it had happened other times that I had no memory of, during the stage I called lights-out. That’s the time between my last upload of information and the time I get snuffed. Those memories aren’t stored anywhere. So I could’ve crossed paths with this shithead more times than I think. I have suspicions.
Anyway, New Mexico was one of those settings where Beadle’s handiwork had been on display, but not his face. It was aggravating.
There are several rules that go along with working for your country’s most ruthless agency, the one tasked with defusing the most savage threats and eliminating the most heinous villains. The one rule I consistently broke was the one about not carrying around grievances from past cases.
Man, did I break that rule. My grudge against Beadle was supersized. One day I’d find him and finish him.
But not tonight. Tonight was all about motoring into the quaint little artsy town of Santa Fe and getting some rest. Tomorrow I’d begin tracking down Steffan Parks. Beadle was quietly returned to the back burner.
After stopping at a small market to collect some bottled waters and snacks, I found my hotel, a three-star lodge within walking distance of the historic plaza that sucked in tourists like a black hole. I texted the requisite I’m here safely message to Christina, then fell asleep to an old Robin Williams movie on HBO.
At 8 o’clock the following morning I got in a three-mile run, which, at 7,200 feet of elevation, certainly taxed the lungs. The sun was out, but merely provided encouragement in the below-freezing temperatures. Then I showered and partook of the hotel’s free breakfast buffet.
At 10:30 I was escorted into the office of the sheriff who’d overseen the deaths of the two scientists. He was exactly how you’d picture an old-west sheriff: tall with a paunch around the middle, graying hair, and no patience for Washington bullshit. His name was Tonkin.
“What do you want, Mr. Swan?” he asked, holding a very large mug of coffee.
“Eric is fine. This is mostly a courtesy call to introduce myself and let you know I’ll be investigating the deaths at Marquart Labs.”
“I was told that much,” he said. “I’m still waiting for someone to explain Washington’s concern with this case.”
“All I can say is that the person we suspect is responsible for these murders, Steffan Parks, may not be finished.”
“Here in Santa Fe, or elsewhere?”
“Likely elsewhere. But that’s not the kind of information we want to get out there. No sense in causing a panic if we can take care of our business quickly.”
He looked unimpressed with my business. This was the part of my job I loathed: working with local law enforcement. Don’t get me wrong, I had all the respect in the world for them. They just hated having to share their hard work with some schmo from the Feds and it always made me feel like a dinner guest with a cold sore.
I said, “I’m told you were sent most of the information on Parks. Have you been able to dig up any information on where he may have stayed while he was in town?”
/> Tonkin didn’t need to consult a folder. “As far as we can tell he wasn’t registered at any hotel, nor did he stay at a room-share. There’s no record of him spending any nights in Santa Fe. No record of him staying anywhere in the state, for that matter. The only thing we have to make him a person of interest is a claim from the wife of the head of the lab. But we have no fingerprints, no signs of trespass, nothing to tie in Parks at all. So you can see why I’m curious about your line of investigation.”
I nodded. “And I appreciate that. This person of interest, Parks, worked on exactly the kind of toxin that killed both people at the lab. He had some bizarre vendetta against Leon Haas, we know that for a fact. As far as we can tell, however, the other victim was collateral damage.”
The sheriff visibly stiffened at this last sentence. I kept going.
“I’ll be talking with Mrs. Haas and another employee of the lab who was away when this happened. I might also need to talk to the county coroner. I just didn’t want to intrude on your territory without checking in.”
“Well,” he said, drawing out the word. “I’m told to cooperate with you, so I’ll do that. But I only have so far I’ll go with this type of cooperation. If I feel like you’re making life difficult for people I’ll shut you down. Are we clear on that?”
I had no idea how I could make life difficult for any of the survivors, but there was something just under the surface bugging Sheriff Tonkin. Maybe he didn’t like feeling subjugated on a case, maybe he just didn’t like federal agents on a general basis. Or maybe he just had gas. I didn’t know, and mostly I didn’t care unless it interfered with my assignment. To get through this meeting, however, I let him know we were clear.
He gave a big, slow nod to show that we had a well-negotiated treaty between us. Then he gave me directions to see the coroner, and shared the home addresses of Leon’s widow, Stacey Haas, as well as David Torres, the last surviving employee of Marquart Labs. He’d call ahead and let both know that an independent investigator would be calling on them that afternoon.
I wanted to wrap up this uncomfortable meeting as quickly as possible, so I thanked him for his time and the information. He stood to shake my hand but his face maintained the distrustful look.
“Since this case remains in my open file, I’ll ask that you stay in touch with me,” he said. “And if you happen to find that this Mr. Parks is in town, you’ll let me know. I would like to be the one who makes the arrest, if you don’t mind.”
He held on to my hand throughout this exchange. I played what seemed the obvious card, given the sheriff’s interest. “This is not just a case of someone committing a crime on your watch,” I said. “This is personal to you.”
“Oh, it’s personal, Mr. Swan,” he said, finally releasing his grip. “The young assistant at the laboratory, the collateral damage you referred to. Her name was Amy Elkington.” He sat back down. “She was my niece.”
So I felt like an ass driving away from the sheriff’s building. It wasn’t the first time I’d said something stupid during a case, but that didn’t remove the sour feeling. As a Q2 agent you just got numb to the concept of collateral damage. Once you’d seen and dealt with dozens of dead in the line of duty you sometimes forgot they were mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. Or nieces.
I already hadn’t been welcome when I’d walked into Sheriff Tonkin’s office and I sure as hell didn’t make things any better by minimizing his personal loss, regardless of the fact that it was unintentional. Now, behind the wheel of the Mercedes and following the GPS directions to the home of Leon and Stacey Haas, I questioned my degree of humanity.
And that wasn’t the philosophical whimpering of a chagrined man, nor was it the first time I’d wondered about it. My wife had brought it up more than once. Not in a mean-spirited way, but simply because she was curious.
When you’re consistently brought back from the dead, how could it not diminish your appreciation for the sanctity of life? It crossed my mind that I’d begun to blur the lines between traditional life and my specialized, freakish version. Then, when something like my encounter with Sheriff Tonkin happened, I’d snap to — briefly — and make empty promises of trying harder to not take it all for granted.
It never lasted. And it wouldn’t last this time, either.
I tapped on my phone with the intention of calling Christina, hoping that just the sound of her voice would ground me again. But I shut it back off without completing the call. Something about that screamed neediness; using my vulnerable, mortal wife to make me feel less freakish.
For a moment I’d been so deep in thought that I’d forgotten where I was going. Then I received a text message from the sheriff’s office letting me know that Stacey Haas was home and expecting my visit. Checking the GPS I saw I was within a mile of the house, and pulled into a parking lot to check in with Poole.
“Anything new on Parks?” I asked.
“No, he’s disappeared,” Poole said.
“Not surprising. The authorities in Santa Fe don’t show him ever being in town; no hotel room, no credit card transactions. If he did show up here to do some dirty work, he was completely underground.”
“We have, however, pinged Jayanti Pradesh,” she said. “She was scheduled to speak at a conference in Scottsdale until everything went south with their company. She excused herself as a speaker but it looks like she still showed up at the conference. We’re not sure why.”
I mulled that over. Scottsdale was less than 500 miles from Santa Fe. Could Jayanti and Parks have carried out the poisoning job, then hustled across the border to Arizona? Didn’t seem out of the question at all. A leisurely eight-hour drive would mean no airline records. Our mad scientist could easily be there with his girlfriend.
“All right,” I said to Poole. “I have a couple of people to interview here and then I’ll let you know what the next step is.”
“Please upload this evening if possible,” Poole said. “It’s been a few days.”
“Yes, mom,” I said with a smile and disconnected. Of course, she was right. Even without anything substantial, it was foolish to go very long without uploading a record of all my experiences.
I didn’t expect to get much from the employee who’d been away when Leon Haas and Amy Elkington had been killed, and I expected even less right now from Haas’s wife, Stacey. In truth, I felt like an oaf intruding on her time of mourning. But if Parks had more grandiose plans of revenge, neither of the interviews could wait.
The Mercedes nosed into a posh neighborhood of typical Santa Fe-style homes. Each had a xeriscaped yard, a three-car garage, and what looked like a separate building, known as a casita. On a summer day there might be families out enjoying the sun, but with the cold winter weather the area was quiet, everyone tucked indoors, beside a roaring hearth.
I found the Haas residence and parked on the street. Gathering myself for what would be a difficult conversation, I walked up to the door and rang the bell. Nothing happened for almost thirty seconds. The sheriff’s office had said Stacey Haas was expecting me. I rang the bell again. This time I heard footsteps just before the door swung open.
It took everything I had to not utter an exclamation of surprise. Stacey Haas stood in the doorway, looking up at me with a weary expression. She was medium height, in superb shape, and dressed casually.
She was also the woman I’d almost married back in college.
Chapter Five
Okay, I should probably correct that last statement. I hadn’t almost married her. But at the time I’d thought that I would. I’d even gone so far as to bring it up. Once.
Back then her name had not been Stacey Haas; she was Stacey Bromley, a young biology major from a wealthy family in Pennsylvania. I’d been smitten, and if I’d thought she was, well, that notion was quickly dashed when she’d laughed at my suggestion of wedded bliss. My head was packed with scads of romantic images of a picket-fence future. Stacey Bromley had incinerated all of it, telling me she couldn’t ima
gine ever being married. The truth, at least as far as I could tell, was that she couldn’t imagine marrying me.
All she wanted, she’d claimed, was a career and the lavish perks that came from owning something of substance.
She offered to remain friends after laughing at me. I quietly declined and skulked away, humiliated.
It was the last time I’d seen her. Now I stood on her front porch in Santa Fe, New Mexico, hopefully without my tongue hanging out.
“Yes?” she finally said, probably weirded out by my stare.
“Mrs., um, Mrs. Haas,” I said. “My name is Swan. I believe Sheriff Tonkin’s office told you I’d be stopping by?” We had at least one thing in common: neither of us went by the name we’d used in an earlier life.
She studied my face, and for a fleeting moment I had a wild notion she could tell who I was — or, rather, who I’d been. Something in the eyes? No, that was nonsense lifted directly out of pop songs. These were convict’s eyes I’d merely borrowed. I stood there, trying not to flinch, until she finally nodded.
“Yes.” That was all she said. Rather than invite me in verbally, she stepped aside and held the door open. I walked past her into a modestly-furnished home that belied its ritzy exterior and neighborhood. It was comfortable and homey. Almost eerily quiet. She offered me something to drink and I accepted a glass of ice water, mostly because I needed something to fumble with while my brain played hopscotch.
She indicated a love seat for me while she sat down in a plump chair and leveled another curious gaze at me.
“What can I do to help with your investigation?” she asked. “I thought the sheriff covered everything. Is there something I’ve missed?”
It was strange, hearing her voice again after twenty years. It was the one I’d replayed in my head for ages before finally moving on. For the first time in my career I found myself floundering at conversation, something that generally came easy for me. I wished that I’d looked up a photo of Leon Haas’s wife before driving out, at least to be prepared.
