by T. K. Thorne
“Why here?” she asks.
“This was the address he gave when he was discharged from the military.”
“That was several years ago, I believe.”
“Is he here?” I ask.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“We understand he’s employed by Jason Blackwell, who does live here, right?” Tracey says.
“Yes, my nephew.”
At Tracey’s reaction of surprise, she smiles. “Thank you for the unspoken compliment. I’m his step-aunt. I married at a young age to Jason’s uncle.”
“I see. If you don’t know anything about Angola Simone, we’ll need to speak to your nephew,” Tracey says.
“I’m afraid he’s not here either.”
“But I am here, Aunt Stephanie,” Jason says from the entranceway. “I am always here for Rose.”
He strides in and my heart rate accelerates, as usual, but he steps back to keep a distance between us. Good move. We both need to concentrate without sexual fireworks.
Tracey stands and they shake hands, a custom that gives Iron the convenient opportunity to touch anyone they meet under the guise of civility and manners.
“Good to see you again,” Jason says to Tracey, his voice the shell of politeness. He gives a slight bow in my direction, his face hidden from the others. “And you—detective.” His lips silently add, “mio amore.”
My earlobes burn, and I wish I had taken Stephanie’s offer for water.
“I was just about to leave for the airport, and Angola is bringing the car around.” Jason pulls out his phone, his fingers dancing out a text message. “I’ll have him step inside.”
“A little old fashioned to have a driver, isn’t it?” Tracey asks.
“Business takes me into some uncomfortable situations,” Jason returns smoothly. “My uncle prefers I have a driver and a bodyguard. Angola has been both for several years.”
“We would prefer you don’t leave town while we’re investigating this case,” Tracey says.
“Not possible. It’s critical family business. I will be out of the country for several months.” He shoots an apologetic glance at me.
Tracey’s mouth is set. “We don’t have any legal grounds to compel you—”
The object of our search steps into the room. Tracey stops mid sentence. I’ve had lots of opportunities to watch cats over the last several months. Angola moves like one. Tracey and I both instinctively stand.
Angola settles into a military “at ease” stance with his legs spread, but his hands are clasped together in front of him. I have the feeling he can explode into action given the slightest excuse.
“I will leave you to your business,” Stephanie says.
Angola does not move. Stephanie has to take an extra step around him, which I read as arrogance on his part or perhaps a general disregard for women, or maybe he is just focused on us—me, in particular. For a moment, I meet the disturbing intensity of Angola’s gaze. Why is he staring at me? He has always avoided looking at me, but whatever was behind that avoidance seems to have dissolved. I am the sole object of his attention, and it’s disconcerting.
“Angola,” Jason says, “These detectives from the Birmingham Police Department wish to speak with you.”
“Of course.” He is all servant-polite now. No more staring.
“They want to ask you some questions.”
Angola shifts his gaze to Tracey, his expression passive.
Tracey remains standing. “I understand you served in the military.”
“That’s right.”
“What branch?”
“First Battalion, 7th Marine Regiment, 2007–08.”
“Semper Fi.”
Angola stares at him coldly.
“Second Battalion,” Tracey says. “Rawah, 2008.”
Angola nods in acknowledgement and responds with the location where he was stationed. “Anbar Province.”
“Tough place. You were a POW, Purple Heart. ISIS doesn’t take many prisoners. What happened?”
“I took a hit, Haji overran us. I was left for dead. Made the mistake of groaning at the wrong time.”
“Lucky you made it out alive.”
“Sometimes I didn’t think so.”
His comment jolts me. I’ve read about ISIS torture—throwing gasoline on a prisoner and threatening to set him afire or cutting off someone’s head right in front of the prisoner. Those were some of the comparatively nicer things. Angola’s gaze flicks to me. He knows what I endured in this house. Despite myself, a kindred spirit briefly unites us.
“You are a person of interest in a murder,” Tracey says calmly.
“Am I?”
“Did you know Laurie Stokes?”
“Can’t say that I do, or ‘did,’ I assume.”
“Can you tell me your whereabouts the day of April 10?”
He shrugs. “If Jason was out, I was with him, otherwise at home.”
“Let me check,” Jason says, looking at the calendar on his phone. “We weren’t anywhere that night other than home.”
“And home is?” Tracey asks Angola, taking a step closer.
I ready myself to back him up if necessary, suddenly feeling like the dog that catches the bus he has chased. What do we do? If we arrest Angola, how do we find Kaleshia? Unless House of Stone guards him 24/7, he can just walk out of a normal officer’s custody.
“Not your business,” Angola says tightly. “Are you arresting me?”
“He lives here,” Jason says. “I was with him all that day, and I imagine my aunt can testify to that as well.”
“Are you arresting me?” Angola repeats.
A moment of silent tension thrums between them. “Not at the moment,” Tracey says and turns to Jason. “There is a young girl missing.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“She was kidnapped. We have reason to believe Angola might have been involved.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Tracey takes the photograph taken with the hospital security camera from his shirt pocket and shows it to Jason.
“That could be anyone,” he says.
“Then you wouldn’t mind us searching the house for her?”
“My uncle is technically the owner, but I stand for him in his absence. Yes, of course, you may. Angola and I will escort you.”
“Angola is a suspect,” Tracey says. “We’ll have to detain him while we search.”
We call for a patrol car and put Angola, searched and handcuffed, in the back seat with instructions to the officer watching him under no circumstances to allow physical contact with him.
Then we search every inch of that house, including the secret tunnel, at least the one I know about, and the iron chair room where I was held captive. Tracey actually searches it. I can’t bring myself to step inside.
Chapter Fifty-Four
It’s a big house and we are stretching the limits of legitimate “detention,” but how long we can keep Angola depends on the reasonability of the circumstances. It’s a big house. An hour later, we have found no clue that connects him to Kaleshia. We stretch the rules further to take him to headquarters and question him.
Unruffled, he denies any connection with Crompton, Stokes, the unregistered phone we found in Alice’s house, calling Segal, or knowing anything about Kaleshia. Jason was right that it’s impossible to make any kind of ID with the photo from hospital camera. Our “evidence” is built on a dead man’s statement that would make no sense to anyone not of a House. We can’t hold him legally.
We are both more than frustrated when we release him.
“I never thought I’d say this,” I tell Tracey when we are back in our car alone, “but I’d be willing to get him somewhere alone and get it out of him.” I’m imagining Tracey’s big hand around hi
s neck.
“Maybe we should have. We could try to kidnap him and have Stone hold him, but if we do that and can’t get him to reveal where Kaleshia is, we risk her dehydrating or starving to death or dying without her medications. And that man has seen some torture. I’m not sure we could break him.”
My fist clenches. “I’m willing to risk it, rather than just let him go.”
“Let’s try it my way first.”
“What way is that?” I lean back in the seat, mentally and physically worn thin.
“I put a magnetic tracker on Jason’s car.”
I sit up. “I didn’t even see you do that.”
“I’m good.”
“But what if Angola has his own car?”
“Then we’re shit out of luck.”
I lean back again and close my eyes. I’m unsettled by more than having to confront the room where I was held captive and tortured, even though I didn’t actually go in it. Standing outside was traumatic enough. And what had I seen in Angola’s dark eyes? It wasn’t just that he was a murderer. It was something else . . . something personal.
“What did Angola mean when he said ‘Haji’ attacked him?” I ask. “I thought Haji was a holy pilgrimage.”
“It is, but for grunts in Iraq, it means Arabs or Persians.”
“He didn’t break a sweat about being questioned.”
“I imagine it didn’t compare to interrogation as an ISIS prisoner.”
“I’m going to check on Segal,” I say, fishing my phone from my purse.
Segal answers on the first ring. “Any news on my sister?”
I start to tell him we just talked to the suspect, but don’t. He is vulnerable to Angola’s touch. The less he knows, the less he can say. Besides, I don’t know how to tell him we had him, but had to let him go. Instead I ask, “Has he contacted you?”
“No.”
“If he does, tell him you need proof that Kaleshia is okay. Not just her voice, you want to see her, a video of her.”
“Yeah.” His voice is shaky. “I will, and I’ll stall him as long as I can, but this guy knows what I do, and he knows how long it should take.”
I hang up.
“Now what?” I ask Tracey.
“Now we turn it over to the tech guys.”
“What do you mean?
“I have it set up for them to follow Jason’s car.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do that?”
He shrugs. “Had no idea I would have the opportunity to do it, just came prepared.”
I want to sulk about that, but I recall the stuff I did without him—checking on his story about taking a class from Crompton, interviewing Crompton’s wife and Laurie Stokes.
“I guess you owe me that,” I say. “What do we do meanwhile? Shouldn’t we follow too?”
“No, they have a couple of cars with receivers and can stay far enough away not to spook them. They’ll report everything to me. I don’t want them trying to apprehend either of them.”
“No. That would be a bad idea. We could end up with more bodies.”
He shakes his head. “Never thought I’d have to deal with House of Iron like this. If we do put him in prison—”
“I don’t see how any prison could hold him. I’m surprised he didn’t just use Iron magic in Iraq and walk out. Why would he let them torture him?”
“There are awful stories. As for why he didn’t just walk out, I’m guessing he hadn’t hit ‘magic puberty’ yet and didn’t have the ability to draw on his power.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-five. That’s about average.”
“I wonder how he did escape.”
Tracey’s mouth is a grim line. I wonder if he is thinking about his own time in the Middle East.
“Doesn’t matter now,” he says.
“What do we do while we wait for a development from the surveillance or from Segal’s end?”
“I’m going home and taking a shower. I suggest you find some way to relax and get some rest, ‘cause at some point this is all going to blow up . . . or go to hell.”
The only possibility of relaxing for me is a workout and swim. I make quick circuit in the weight room, happy to have it to myself. In spite of the fact that I wear sloppy clothes and pull my hair into a tight ponytail, sometimes I have to deal with some steroid-happy male.
Mindful that I might have to run out should I get a call from Tracey or Segal, I take my gym bag to the pool. My clothes and purse are inside. I wrap my phone in a big towel and place it as far from the pool’s edge as I can reach, but I’m not worried I will miss a call. My waterproof watch will vibrate to alert me. Technology can be handy.
The pool is also deserted, the crystal-clear water perfectly still. I like how every sound echoes beneath the high ceiling. This is my place. A quick flip, twist and clip of my ponytail fastens my hair on the top of my head. I adjust my eye goggles and slip in. Sometimes I dive, but today, I don’t want to disturb the water. I just want to be part of it. Already warmed up from the weights, I just push off and ease into my stroke. Overhead crawl to start. Reach; pull; breathe. Reach; pull; breathe. The rhythm takes over, and I let my worries shed away like old skin.
After the fifth touch of the wall, I pause at the deep end, gripping the pool’s edge. My head lifts to find a pair of shoes edging the water line between my hands. I recognize them.
Angola says calmly, “What good fortune on my part to find you in water.”
I rip my goggles off and look up, straight into the muzzle of a semi-automatic handgun with an attached silencer.
The laps have me already taking quick breaths, but I manage to say, “I take it you’re not here to bring me to a dinner date.”
The slightest smile cracks his stoic face. “I admire your spirit.”
In the movies, this is where the hero gets a confession because the bad guy figures he has nothing to lose. There is no way I can get out of the water, and I’m dead if I don’t. I have to do something.
“You arranged Crompton’s death and killed Stokes, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he says. “Spirited and clever. It’s a shame to have to kill you.”
He wouldn’t tell me that unless he intends to kill me. Keep him talking!
“And you kidnapped a child. That’s pretty low. Is money that important?”
His mouth tightens. “Not money.”
“What then?” The knuckles of my fingers are white gripping the pool’s edge.
“Honor.”
“Honor?” I almost laugh, but it would be a hysterical sounding laugh and probably get me shot. I swallow it.
“Something perhaps you would not understand,” he says, narrowing his dark eyes.
“But I want to. How could honor drive you to kill?”
“Perhaps your partner could explain it to you if he were around.”
Something about being in the military, then. He and Tracey were both Marines. Semper fi—always faithful.
He is standing between my hands. His forefinger is already curled on the trigger. The first pull on a semi-automatic is harder than the rest. No time to think about what to do. Just do something.
I slap my right hand against the inside of his right knee, pushing out and down, while my left pushes in the opposite direction on his ankle. As his support collapses, I pull my legs under me, planting the balls of my feet against the pool wall and pushing off as hard as I can, hanging on to his ankle.
His weight hits me, forcing me under. A metallic thump of discharge from the gun feels like a punch to my chest. The bullet slices though the water in a white-churn trail at an angle from me. Angola is on his back, his feet near my head. He wraps his legs around my neck. I’ve lost track of the gun, but the chokehold on my neck is the priority. He’s applying pressure on the
carotid arteries. Only seconds before I lose consciousness. Jerking my head down, I push up on his ankles, which forces me down and out of his grasp.
I’m free. He is overhead, a dark shadow. I kick away, trying to put distance between us. The density of the water will slow a bullet, but not stop it. A shock vibrates my chest as another spinning bullet tunnels by. This one much closer.
Angola drops the gun and swims at me, a shark zeroing in on its prey. I raise my feet to push him off. This time he grabs a leg and pulls. As he drags me toward him, my other foot pops him hard in the face. Blood erupts in rising globules from his nose. I kick free and swim for my life. With every stroke I imagine his hand on my foot, dragging me toward him.
At the shallow end, I heave out of the pool, arms trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion, roll from the edge, snatch the towel with my phone, and run, grabbing my gym bag off the chair in front of the door. Soaking wet, I dart through the lobby and out the door. Let the guy at the desk wonder. No doubt Angola will erase his memories with a touch.
In my car, I start to tremble and fumble for my purse in the gym bag. The first thing I do is put my gun on my lap. There’s no sign of Angola chasing me. Maybe I killed him with that kick, and he is floating in the pool. Or maybe he is going to show up in my rear-view mirror like a zombie that won’t stay dead.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Ihit Tracey’s speed dial and pull my car out of the garage next to the gym, fumbling for the token I fortunately got before I worked out. It seems to take forever for Tracey to answer and for my fingers to get the damn token in the slot. The gate rises like it’s stuck in molasses.
“What’s up?” Tracey says.
I pull near the Y entrance and get out, gun in right hand, phone in my left, dripping water in a puddle on the street.
“Angola just tried to kill me.”
“What? Where are you?”
“Outside the downtown YMCA. He tried to shoot me in the pool. I think he’s still in there.”
“Did you call 911?”
“No. No time and—” I leave it hanging. He knows the dangers of having armed officers mix with Iron magic.
