by Debbi Mack
When I look up, the boy still stands there. He’s stopped crying. But the blood is all over his face. Oozing from his pores like sweat.
I try to speak to him, but no words come. How can he still be standing, bleeding from every pore? I see it on his arms now.
I don’t understand. But the boy stares at me, without blinking. Then I realize he’s dead as another explosion topples him in front of me.
And, not for the first time, I realize that death is just inches away from me.
Now, I’m in the mine-resistant vehicle with Perkins. He drives. I’m beside him—M16 at the ready. An electric jolt runs up my back as the vehicle bounces down the dusty road. If you can dignify the narrow strip of ground as such. The strip of ground is packed sand, the same relentless dusty beige as its surroundings.
We’re on our way home. Then, an explosion, and everything turns black.
ϕϕϕ
I jolt awake after the explosion. I am drenched in sweat. Gasping for air. My heart pounds to the same beat I feel in my head.
What I wouldn’t give for a single night of peaceful dreams. Reluctantly, I get out of bed and force myself to face another day.
Chapter Twenty
I toss my nightshirt aside and wander toward the bathroom like a zombie. Brush teeth, step into the shower. The water washes the sweat away, but my anxiety is still there.
As I go through the motions of making a minimal breakfast, my thoughts churn. The past few days’ events flash by in my head. I need to write them down—and use what I’ve learned to somehow connect the players on my flowchart.
I force myself to meditate for ten minutes, then do my yoga stretches. To my astonishment, it helps. A little.
I suddenly remember that I still haven’t heard back from Terry. Time to check up on him.
ϕϕϕ
On the way to Terry’s apartment, I tried to figure out why he hadn’t returned my calls. Maybe he lost his phone or maybe it died, but I didn’t really believe either one. Of course, anything was possible, but there was only one way to find out.
I backed into a space outside Terry’s building and started to walk toward the entrance. His car was parked several spaces from mine. A glance at a small opening in his mailbox revealed that he hadn’t retrieved his mail. There were times when I could go for days without checking my own mail and not regret it, but I had to empty the box sooner or later. In any case, seeing a full mailbox was a little unnerving, considering that Terry had failed to return my calls or text me.
I climbed the steps and gave his door three sharp raps. No response. More rapping produced more nothing. I tried the knob. Locked. I sighed and dug through my shoulder bag for my handy-dandy bump key.
As I wrestled with the key, I kept my ears open and occasionally looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was sneaking up on me. The itchy feeling I had developed felt like a case of poison ivy—internal.
After what seemed like eons of whacking on the key with one hand and adjusting its placement with the other, the door lock finally gave way. I opened the door very slowly. My overly cautious entrée into Terry’s apartment was unrewarded. Not a soul in sight. No Terry. No strangers who might be disgruntled hackers or whatever else.
I eased inside and shut the door behind me. After the soft click of the door closing, I sensed an eerie hush about the place . . . not a sound from within or without. The neighbors must be at work. Then I heard a faint squeak squeak from above. The upstairs neighbor was home. Or being robbed by the world’s dumbest burglar. Not my business.
“Terry.” The word slipped out, not loudly, but loud enough to be heard in the unusual silence. Moving through the small apartment, I could see that nothing had been disturbed. The furniture, the closets, the kitchen, the bathroom—it all looked unmolested by intruders. Terry’s toothbrush was in its holder. Maybe he’d taken an impromptu trip and forgotten it.
I checked the fridge again. Nothing much in it, except for a few essentials. Condiments, jam, nothing that would spoil. Except for the take-out Chinese food shoved to the back. Thought about smelling it and changed my mind.
In the freezer, I found a stack of frozen foods. Those meal-in-a-box deals. This was Terry’s diet. Frozen dinners, take-out, and condiments. The booze was probably under the sink.
Now for a list of things I did not find. I did not find a flight itinerary, credit card statements, old letters, a note written in invisible ink, a message hastily scrawled on the wall in blood, or any of those other fool things that invariably make their way into detective stories.
I also didn’t find Terry’s dead body. That was the good news.
I took one last look beneath furniture, behind a calendar, inside drawers and in every other conceivable hiding place. Under the bed, I saw what seemed like a dark lump of some kind. A closer look revealed a rectangular shape. I swept an arm beneath the bed frame and managed to snag it.
It was a cell phone. A cursory inspection made it clear it was Terry’s and out of juice.
What was Terry’s cell phone doing under the bed?
Chapter Twenty-One
The find sickened me. Terry wouldn’t have left willingly without his phone. I saw no sign of a fight. Not unless they had a knock-down drag out and straightened up afterward—highly doubtful.
But the phone could have been kicked under the bed. Possibly by someone holding a gun on Terry. And if this had anything to do with my inquiries into the Georgian (or Svanetian) letter, then it could be my fault that Terry was . . . Kidnapped? Being tortured? Dead?
I tried to shut down this new train of thought, which was sheer supposition anyway. Maybe the hackers coming after him were angry enough to take him hostage. But without any struggle from Terry? Nah.
The police. I should file a missing persons report. Tell them everything I’d had done to try to reach Terry. I would leave out the part about breaking into his apartment. They could search it for themselves if they wanted to.
It was the least I could do if Blaine’s case related to Terry’s disappearance. And, at this point, the least I could do was the best I could do.
ϕϕϕ
After exhausting every possible hiding place for clues, I left Terry’s apartment. My spidey-sense tingled. The internal poison ivy flared. That too-familiar feeling of bad vibes from my time being deployed overseas. As I walked to my car, I felt a presence behind me. The presence walked quietly as a cat, but his footsteps whispered against the pavement in a way that told me he was large and heavy. I say “he”, because I caught a glimpse of his shadow. It could’ve been Sasquatch’s.
“Excuse me,” a voice rumbled at my back. I stopped and turned. A man approached me. He was like a gorilla, with possibly a bit less hair.
The lights went out for a moment. Then, I realized the man was on the ground, out cold. I felt slightly dizzy, but remained upright. My arms ached a bit. They felt like I’d been lifting weights.
A blackout. I hadn’t had one in ages. But then I hadn’t felt this threatened in a long time.
Itchiness swept through me. Bugs crawled up my spine. I scanned the surrounding buildings. Saw a glimmer on the roof. I dove for the pavement, trying to keep my chin from scraping concrete, but not quite succeeding.
Zzzip. Crack. The sounds verified my fears. The bullet grazed the nearby shrubbery, thudding into the ground. Too close.
I pushed myself up with caution, looking toward where light had reflected off the sniper’s scope. Nothing there. I touched my chin. Blood stained my hand. Facial wounds always seem worse than they are, blood-wise, but I needed to staunch the flow before I dripped all over one of my few decent shirts.
The Gorilla Man stirred, his eyes still shut. Time to leave. I forced myself to stand and made a wobbly-legged run for the car.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I managed to start the car and pull out of the lot without getting shot at a second time, which was a step in the right direction. Now, I needed to figure out what in God’s name to do next.
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My mind spun with possibilities. Focus, focus, focus—my current mantra.
My first thought was to go to the cops. And not just to report what I saw in Terry’s apartment. There was the failure to contact him, the uncharged phone under the bed, plus a sniper taking shots at me in full daylight. It had to be someone staking Terry’s place out. If so, why had Gorilla Man not followed me inside? Could Gorilla Man have been looking for Terry, too? His interest in me might have been completely benign.
That’s the thing about PTSD. Your senses become too acute. Even a person’s shadow made me jumpy. And for all I knew, he might have had no connection to the sniper.
Did any of this have anything to do with my work for Blaine? Or ancient artifacts that might’ve been smuggled from Soviet Georgia (or some part thereof)?
As I drove away, my gaze darted from the rearview mirror to the road. No sign of anyone following me.
A mile or two down the road, I turned onto a side street and pulled over. I retrieved the notepad from my file and wrote down everything I remembered of the incident. If I went to the cops, they’d want a statement. Writing it now would keep the details fresh.
I felt my back twinge again. With all the excitement, adrenaline had masked the return of that blasted backache.
I considered my options. If I went to the police, what could they do if the Mob was involved? We hadn’t had any serial sniper shootings in the area since 2002 when two snipers terrorized the whole DC area and beyond. And despite my concern about Terry, how likely were the cops to make any effort to find him? Was it worth defying my wealthy client’s wishes to keep the police out of it?
But then there was Melissa. Did she fit into this picture anywhere? I’d already put in my three hours toward finding her and then some. But now my friend was missing, too. And the sniper made it clear that the Mob or someone wasn’t just screwing around.
I knew for sure that something was off. I knew from my time in the Corps that a good sniper could have taken me out. If the intent was to kill me, I’d be dead.
One thing was clear. It was time for another meet with the client. We needed to get a few things straight.
ϕϕϕ
Blaine answered on the second ring with an abrupt, “Yes?”
“We need to meet as soon as possible,” I said.
“Why? Any news about my daughter?”
“I haven’t found her, but there are matters I need to discuss with you.”
“So discuss,” he snapped. “What’s going on?”
“Not on the phone,” I insisted. “We need to talk face-to-face.”
The sound from the other end could have been either a groan or a growl. “I don’t have time to waste on meetings. Talk to me.”
Fine. “To put it in a nutshell, I haven’t found your daughter or your money. Your partner, as you know, is . . . no longer with us. But I’ve come to believe that he may have been involved in an illegal activity. Your money may have gone toward that. To date, my car’s brakes have been tampered with, I’ve been followed, and someone took a shot at me. Either you meet with me to talk about this or I go to the police.”
Blaine’s grunt was dismissive. “Then let me put your mind at ease. You’re fired.”
Ah, how different the rich are from you and me. “Mr. Blaine. Stuart,” I said. “Hear me out.”
Wasted words. Blaine had hung up.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Fantastic,” I said, as I disconnected and stowed the phone. So much for that client. So much for this month’s rent money. Now what?
I reviewed the situation. What did I owe Blaine other than a refund—partial refund? He’d tossed me aside like a pair of old shoes. That left me with the decision about the police.
If I blabbed to the cops about the ins and outs of my relationship with Blaine, would it affect my reputation as a licensed private eye somewhere down the road? But there was more at stake than Blaine’s problems. Apart from the fact that I’d been shot at by someone keeping surveillance on Terry’s apartment, there was the unsettling matter of Terry’s disappearance.
My head throbbed, my back ached, and my chin stung where it had kissed the sidewalk. I angled the rearview mirror for a look at the damage. Minor road rash. I’d suffered worse.
“The hell with it,” I announced to no one in particular. I had reason to believe something bad had happened to Terry. Time to file an official report. I could keep Blaine’s name out of it.
I headed straight to the police station in Wheaton. I was tempted to just handle it with a phone call, but I felt like I needed to look someone in the eye while filing my report. This was more than just an everyday misdemeanor and I had to know whether the police took my concerns seriously.
At the police station, I entered through a lobby and found a skinny little guy in street clothes behind a desk, on the phone. He finally hung up and greeted me with a terse, “Yes?”
“I’d like to report a missing person.”
The phone rang and Mr. Bones jerked a thumb toward a wall bench. “Wait there. An officer will take your report.” He snatched up the receiver. “Montgomery County Police, District Four, Rolland,” he told the caller.
I meandered over to the bench, sat down, and checked my email by phone. But I kept an eye on the multitasking greeter, to make sure he told someone I was there.
My head still pounded and I did my usual seated mambo to keep the lower backache at bay. I stowed the phone and shut my eyes, in a lame attempt to ease the pain.
After what seemed like only a few minutes, I opened my eyes and checked the time. I’d been there an hour. Startled onto my feet, I went to check with Boney Rolland.
I walked over to the desk and planted my hands on the edge. “Remember me?”
Rolland squinted my way. “Missing person?”
“Right,” The word came out bit louder than intended. “You said an officer would come take my report. I’ve been here over an hour.”
“Well, I’ve been here since 6:30 a.m. So I’ve got you beat.”
“Any idea how long it will be?”
“As soon as possible,” he said. “After they’ve attended to the usual murders, rapes, and burglaries.”
My headache suddenly worsened. I closed my eyes and leaned against the desk.
“Are you alright?” The man’s voice seemed to come from a great distance.
When I didn’t answer, I felt a touch on my arm. “Why don’t you go home and call the report in?” Rolland said. “We’ll send an officer to your house.”
I opened my eyes and, straining to stay calm, I said, “Thanks. I’ll do that.” Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Since I was no longer working for Blaine, I spent most of the day catching up on computer research I owed another client and took occasional breaks to do yoga stretches. Stretching my back provided a small measure of relief. The research gig was small change compared with what I could’ve earned from Blaine, but it would pay one or two bills.
An officer named Hillerman came by—eventually—to take my report. The man was a few inches taller than me with close-cropped brown hair, well-proportioned features, and an officious manner. He also looked just old enough to get a driver’s license.
As I recounted events leading up to Terry’s disappearance, I was very careful not to mention Blaine, his dead partner, or his missing daughter. I did throw in the fact that someone had tried to shoot me. For all the good that would do. As for Gorilla Man, I was the one who had tossed him to the ground. Discretion being the better part of common sense, I decided not to mention it.
Hillerman scratched his nose with the blunt end of his pen. “Let me get this straight. Someone took a shot at you, but you’re reporting a missing person? Do you have any reason to think those things are connected?”
I racked my brain, but couldn’t dredge up a thing that wouldn’t involve Blaine in some manner. “Not really” was my sole response.
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nbsp; Hillerman eyed me in a way that suggested he didn’t quite believe that. “You do realize that the shooting may have nothing to do with your friend? And that your friend may have chosen to disappear?”
“But why would he leave his cell phone behind?” And even as my words tumbled out, I knew how Hillerman would respond.
“A cell phone can be tracked. Maybe your friend doesn’t want to be contacted or tracked. No offense, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Jesus. “None taken,” I said, clamping my lips shut on the profanities that were too close to the surface.
Hillerman was good enough to make out a separate report of the shooting. And after assuring him multiple times that I hadn’t gotten a look at the shooter or otherwise had any clue as to who he was or why he would target me, Hillerman assured me that my report would get “all due attention,” which I took to mean none. Unless, of course, the gunman who set his sights on me went on a genuine shooting spree—which I doubted would happen.
After the officer left, I took a moment to grab a cup of coffee and refocus my thoughts and then returned to my computer to get in some solid work. The phone rang. The caller ID indicated a blocked number. I sighed. Answer or ignore? I reached over and picked up.
“Is this Erica Jensen?” The caller was a male with a low and husky voice.
“Who’s calling please?”
“Is this Erica Jensen?” The voice intensified and became angry.
“Nope. This is Queen Elizabeth. Who’s calling please?”
“Stay away from the police, Jensen,” the voice intoned. “And no more trips to Baltimore. Got that?”
I had no immediate response. The silence stretched into a small eternity. “Who the hell is this?”
“Never mind.” The response was immediate. “Just do as I say or your friend will be in a world of shit.”
