by Camryn King
“Definitely suspect,” Logan admitted. “But it doesn’t jive with what you told me about being naked. Why take off your clothes and not do anything? As a man, that’s more suspicious than anything else that happened.”
They were silent for a moment, then Logan said, “And you’re sure that guy I checked at your front door wasn’t in the Bahamas?”
“I’m not sure of anything. Until I’m able to figure it out, can you do me a favor? Can you not tell Gwen, or anyone else about what happened today?”
“I won’t, but only if you agree to let me install one more camera. If somebody comes down your hall or by your door, you need to know about it.”
Kennedy felt overwhelmed and the beginnings of a panic attack. She took deep breaths and willed it away. There were too many pieces to try and fit together. The burglaries. Her electronics stolen. Waking up naked. Her home being cased. The possibility she couldn’t ignore, that the incidents were related. But if so, by whom and for what?
Panic fled as her resolve strengthened to solve the puzzle that had become her life. She wouldn’t feel safe until that happened. Freaking out would be counterproductive.
6
Zeke Foster didn’t like holidays. He didn’t like much of anything, or anyone. Who needed an entire weekend to focus on the dead and departed, to remember what he’d most like to forget? Wars and the men and women who’d fought them. The loved ones who’d died and ripped apart his heart. The enemies he’d killed and now haunted his sleep. The day dredged up mental pictures of growing up in the Blue Ridge mountains of West Virginia. Every Memorial Day Monday, before the sun came up, he’d climb into his grandfather Buck’s blue Dodge pickup, and along with his father Matthew and brother Jerry, take the five-and-a-half-hour drive to Arlington, Virginia to pay their respects. Buck’s father Daniel was buried there, courtesy of World War II. Daniel’s dad, Zeke’s great-great-grandfather, was there as well. Clyde Foster had been a part of World War I’s American Expeditionary Force and according to stories handed down from his grandpa had personally known fellow Virginian President Woodrow Wilson. Zeke’s father Matthew had fought in the early years of the Vietnam War, then spent another twenty years in the Army Reserves. Buck did his time in Korea. Zeke and his brother Jerry were fifth generation military men. The day after 9/11, a then seventeen-year old Zeke had joined the National Guard, and had enlisted in the Navy the day after graduating high school. Both Matthew and Buck were present when Zeke took the oath:
I, Zeke Patton Foster, do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.
Four years later he took the officer’s oath, similar to the one he’d recited prior, but with the added acknowledgment that he’d taken the obligation freely without mental reservation or purpose of evasion. Zeke pledged to faithfully discharge the duties of the new office he’d entered.
For Zeke, both oaths were sacred, a vow stronger than the ones he’d recite on his wedding day, should he ever get married. He’d always been patriotic, always believed in God and country, America first. From the moment of the salute and handshake of the commissioning officer, he no longer bled red. Zeke Patton Foster bled red, white, and blue.
Zeke increased the speed on the treadmill and ran full out for five minutes. He slowed it down, ran another five, and then hit the weight room—his favorite spot in the gym. Placing one-hundred-pound weights on the barbell, he straddled the bench and did several quick presses in succession. He added another hundred pounds to both sides, positioned his body for the lift and raised it up, his entire focus on the strength needed to bench press twice his weight. He lifted again. Veins bulged and sweat ran as he grit his teeth and hoisted the bar. He’d just repositioned his feet and was headed for a third lift when he felt another hand clamp the bar.
“Hey, buddy.”
He opened his eyes and met the baby blues of Warren, a friend—or as close to one as Zeke could claim—and the gym’s owner. “What the hell you want?”
“For you to stop being an asshole. You know you shouldn’t be lifting this kind of weight without a spotter.”
“I know what I can handle.”
“Yeah, well, so do I, and pulling a dead body out from under the bar that cut off your breath when it fell on your esophagus isn’t something I want to handle today. Got it?”
Zeke didn’t answer. Instead, he swung his leg over the bench and walked out of the room. Warren followed him out. Zeke continued into the locker room, grabbed a towel from the stack and wiped himself down. He opened the locker where his things were stored, pulled off the t-shirt that clung to his body and pulled on a fresh one from out of his bag.
“Damn, man, was it something I said?”
Zeke offered a crooked smile. “Don’t be a pussy.”
Warren delivered a fisted blow to Zeke’s arm. “That better?”
Zeke feigned to look around. “Are there mosquitos in this place?”
“Get the fuck outta here.”
“On my way.” Zeke hoisted the gym bag strap over his shoulder and headed out of the room.
Once again, Warren mirrored his steps. “You okay?”
“I’m good.”
“I know this isn’t your favorite day.”
“You know more than most.”
Warren clapped Zeke’s back. “Alright, man. Take it easy.”
Zeke left the gym, his mind cluttered and racing as usual, during the ten-minute walk home. He entered the two-bed, one-bath bungalow he shared with Ammo—a super-smart German shepherd brought back from Afghanistan—dumped the bag, peeled off his clothes and stepped into the shower. Once done he wrapped a white towel around his waist and padded barefoot into the kitchen for his daily drink duo, two fingers of scotch with a beer back. Not just any beer. Coors or Budweiser, the beer for real men. Anything not brewed in America was the type of beer losers drank. He knocked back the scotch, took a long swig of beer, then set it on the counter while he went into the bedroom and put on a pair of knee-length gym shorts and leather sandals. After heading to the back yard with a bowl of dog food, using the hose to fill up Ammo’s water, and tossing the Frisbee with man’s best friend a time or two, he returned to the house, left the wooden door open so Ammo could come through the doggie door, and returned to the kitchen. He opened the freezer, pulled out a dinner from three rows of precisely stacked items, zapped it in the microwave, and then took it and the beer into the dining room where several pictures were scattered about. While shoveling a forkful of steaming lasagna into his mouth he picked up one of the pictures, a close-up of an attractive woman leaving a building, glued to her cellphone, her naturally curly hair caught up in the wind. He dropped it and reached for a second one of the same woman. This time she was leaving a restaurant accompanied by a tall, lanky Black guy, a shorter White man, and another female, this one dark-skinned and curvy, about the same height as his subject. He hadn’t planned on the close encounter with the guy he now knew was named Logan the other day. It was a mistake. He didn’t make those often.
Zeke reached for his beer and opened the original folder he’d received containing information on his latest assignment, Kennedy Wade, the woman who may have either knowingly or unknowingly taken potentially damning photographs of a secret meeting between Ed Becker, the taciturn heir to a billion-dollar fortune, and Zeke’s boss, Braum Van Dijk, one of the most powerful media moguls in the world. He knew the lengths these men employed for their alliance to remain hidden. Many believed Becker’s family’s wealth was tied to unscrupulous ventures and nefarious deeds that went against the mores of the loyal conservative viewers to which Van Dijk’s stations catered. The friendship or partnership, or whatever it was, had surprised Zeke, too, until
learning that the meeting was about dismantling a group that posed a threat to the American people and national security. From that point, Zeke was ready to do his part to ensure the country’s safety, including taking a life or giving up his own. The target Zeke had met and studied didn’t appear that powerful, but when Zeke pressed for details he was ordered not to question his boss’s authority. “Time is of the essence,” is what he’d been told, before receiving a ticket to the Bahamas and reminded that his duty was to Van Dijk and the country, in that order. An hour later he was on a chartered flight to the Bahamas and after a couple hours more he was a guy named Jack having dinner with his mark.
He placed the beer on a coaster and pulled out a sheet of paper. The information had been memorized, but he reread it anyway:
Name: Kennedy Lynn Wade
Age: 28
Height: 5’5”
Weight: 120
Occupation: Freelance photographer/writer/artist Birthplace: Peyton, Kansas
Current Residence: 3452 N. Lakeshore Drive, #8D, Chicago, IL 60657
Telephone: 302-555-9790 (H); 302-555-2745 (C)
Parent(s): Karolyn (Thomas, Wade) Burnett
Carl Wade, Deceased; Stepfather, Ray Burnett
Sibling(s): Karl Wade
The paper contained the addresses and phone numbers of both Karl and Karolyn as well as their employment information, political affiliations, police history, and tax files. The folder contained their pictures, too, along with the ones he’d shot of Kennedy once inside her room. He tried to view them dispassionately, devoid of emotion, as a doctor would. But he was a virile ex-soldier, a pure Alpha male. She was an attractive woman, becoming even more so once he’d stripped her down and taken pictures that if necessary could later be used as leverage. She’d moaned a couple times initially, before the drug cocktail he’d given her had totally kicked in. She’d looked so peaceful then, and innocent. Discipline, his sense of honor, and his grandfather’s lessons on character had kept him from taking advantage of her impaired state that night. That and his ability to stay laser-focused on a job. Unsure of how long it would take him to find what he was looking for in her room, he’d mixed a potent cocktail into her drink. One of the drugs was to cloud her memory, the other was to induce a deep, long sleep. The cocktail had worked, almost better than he intended. He’d placed the hotel’s “do not disturb” sign on her door and spent the next four hours combing through her belongings to confiscate everything that might contain digital images. He’d then taken other items and staged the room to look like a random robbery before returning to his hotel less than five minutes away.
He flipped through the other pictures he’d taken that Sunday once she’d emerged from hibernation. Pictures of her at the front desk, and later with the supervisor and Bahamian police. He’d rented a motorcycle, its full-face helmet the perfect cover for him to stay undetected. He’d followed her to the U.S. Embassy and trailed her as she was driven to the airport for her return flight. He’d stayed another day, retraced her steps and got intel on the private company that owned the boat from which the pictures were taken. He held up a photo of a smiling man wearing a Hawaiian-styled shirt and a straw hat. The driver of the boat, a local, had no additional information to offer, a man on a mission to hustle up some extra bucks. While finishing the beer, he returned the pictures to the folder along with the newspaper article he’d clipped last week. The article with accompanying pictures that shocked him, that got him called into Van Dijk’s office and reprimanded for a job not done.
His orders had been clear—confiscate all footage from Wade’s trip to the Bahamas. He was to do this at any and all cost, and had thought that after entering her room and confiscating all her electronic devices, the mission had been accomplished. He hadn’t counted on a cloud account, which she obviously had, though in retrospect that should have been a no-brainer. Sunday’s newspaper spread was proof that at least some of what she shot in the Bahamas was still in her possession, and so far, his tech guy had not been able to find and hack her cloud. It was time to implement Plan B and try to purchase the lot as an anonymous buyer. He hoped that move would prove successful. Because if not, he’d have to go to Plan C, and leave another family with a grave to visit on Memorial Day.
7
Kennedy entered the quaint, locally-owned coffee shop that had become a second home since the burglary at her condo. She breathed in the smell of coffee and spices swirling around her, took in the artsy, entrepreneurial types, focused on their computer screens or talking on phones, and relaxed—something she could no longer do at home. Even with the security system Logan installed, she didn’t feel comfortable or totally safe. So, on a particularly frustrating morning, she’d taken a drive and ended up here, in a section of Chicago thirty minutes from where a stranger’s spirit still lurked in her office, destroying the peace she once found there.
After securing her preferred table for two with chairs facing the windows and entrance, Kennedy ordered a drink and breakfast sandwich, then pulled out her phone to return the call she’d missed last night.
“Finally,” was Gwen’s hello.
“Good morning to you, too,” Kennedy said.
“You can’t not answer your phone, Kennedy, or take hours to return my call. Not after what all has happened to you. Okay?”
“I’m sorry. The ringer was off and the phone was charging so I didn’t see the missed call until this morning. What’s up?”
“I talked to Logan.”
“I guess you know about the burglary.”
“Yes, again! I couldn’t believe it! What are the chances?”
“I know. It’s crazy.”
“It’s also scary as hell!”
“I’m living proof that lightning can strike twice.”
“What did these lowlifes take?”
“My computer.”
“That’s it?”
“That wasn’t enough?”
“I’m just saying . . . it’s weird that thieves would break into a gadget-filled place like yours and take only one thing.”
“They probably heard a noise and got spooked, ran out before they could dismantle the TVs and stuff.”
“You’re probably right. I can’t believe you’re still in that condo. I’d have already moved my things to an extended stay hotel.”
“With all the upheaval that’s happened lately, I don’t think I could take a move right now.”
“Well, know that if you ever need a place to crash, mi casa es su casa.”
“Thanks, Gwen.” Kennedy paid for her order and returned to the table.
“Have you heard anything from the Bahamas and the investigators handling your case?”
“Not yet.”
“No activity on the credit cards stolen or problems with identity theft?”
“None, thank goodness. I was able to shut them down pretty quickly and set up a block against any attempts to use my personal information. Then I filed yet another insurance claim and included a copy of the police report so they’d know it was legit.”
“I’m so sorry, Ken. I hope whoever did this gets caught.”
“I’m not going to worry about it, or the Bahamas crime either. With insurance, all I mainly lost was time. I’m ready to forget both incidents and put everything behind me.”
A beep indicating an incoming call distracted Kennedy from what Gwen was saying. “Hey, I’ve got another call. It looks like a Bahamian number.”
“You think it’s the police?”
“I hope so. We may have talked them up. Talk later!” She rushed to catch the call. “Kennedy Wade.”
“Hello, Ms. Wade.”
Kennedy immediately perked up. After what happened in the Caribbean, she could detect a Bahamian accent in one syllable or less.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Hi. My name is Anita Ford. I’m a PR and marketing specialist working with the Bahamas Bureau of Tourism on an upcoming campaign. I’m calling regarding the wonderful story on our count
ry that recently appeared in the Chicago Star. You did an amazing job of capturing our country, both visually in the pictures that were taken and descriptively in the article you wrote.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve been hired to redesign some of the marketing materials used to promote the island and have been given a sizeable budget to get who and what I need to complete this task in as short a time as possible. When I came across your work online, I knew immediately that using some of the work you’ve already completed could definitely help me meet the deadline they’ve imposed. It’s as though nature’s heartbeat was made evident in the pictures you captured—the angles, the framing, it was all very well done. And I must tell you. The rains on this island produce some of the most beautiful rainbows I’ve ever seen, but the one you photographed is by far the most stunning. It literally took my breath away.”
“I felt the same way, and felt very fortunate to have captured its beauty.”
“Of course, we’re prepared to pay handsomely for the trip’s entire portfolio. Would one hundred thousand be a fair price for the work?”
Is she kidding? Kennedy thought surely this was the case. She’d not made six figures on a year’s worth of work, let alone shots taken and a story written over a long weekend. She was ready to pounce on this offer like a hungry cat on a trapped mouse, but she held back, tamped down the pure glee, and kept her tone strictly business.
“It’s definitely an offer worth discussing.”
It was an unexpected comeback, made known by the pause that followed. If it threw her, however, Anita seemed to recover quickly and clearly had thought out the offer. “I am happy to hear that. Given that this matter is time-sensitive we’ll make the offer as straightforward as possible and hopefully keep discussions involving negotiation to a minimum. We are willing to pay you one hundred thousand dollars in exchange for exclusive rights to the images shot during your visit, including those posted in the Star, retroactively. Meaning that any images retained by the paper, if any, must be delivered to us as well.”
