Behind The Veil: A Gina Harwood Novel Page 13

  It barely finished the first ring before an out-of-breath voice answered the line. “Detective Harwood?” it asked. Gina's eyebrows pulled down in confusion – it didn't sound like Jake.

  “Who is this?” she asked.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  The opening to Locomotive Breath, Jake's favorite Jethro Tull song, crashed into the room, and Marcus was near panic as he fumbled with the phone, almost dropping it in his initial surprise. Only a few notes had played before he was able to open the phone, but that was all it took to instill a cold sense of dread somewhere behind his belly button. He felt sure Jake would have heard the sound, and recognized it immediately.

  “Detective Harwood?” he rasped, glancing fearfully at the door.

  Sure enough, he heard a pounding sound against the thin metal, and heard his friend's voice yell behind it. “Is that my PHONE?!”

  “Who is this?” he heard her ask, and felt a split-second of relief before the pounding resumed, sending ice down his veins.

  “I don't have time, it's Marcus, Jake's friend, you have to help me, help us...” he let the words spill out of his mouth in a jumble.

  “Marcus, what are you DOING?! Open up! Christ!” Jake yelled outside, yanking on the handle. Marcus shrank against the opposite wall.

  “What is that sound?” he heard the woman ask.

  “He's driving us to Maryland, lady, I don't know what's going on, he's flipped out – I don't know what happened to Peter, but he was covered in blood, jesus, lady, and something's different, I dunno, he's different, you gotta find us, he's taking us to that place his dad told him about, that hippie thing...”

  “Who did you call, MARCUS!” Jake's voice was near the top of his range now, shrieking, and Marcus wondered why the gas station attendant hadn't come to check on the ruckus yet.

  “I don't know what to do, Detective, what do I do?”

  “Okay, calm down, where are you right now?”

  “I don't know, we're at some no-name gas station, I think we're in, shit, Indiana, maybe? I...” Marcus pulled the phone away from his ear. The screen was blank. It was dead. He stared at it, mouth agape, squeezing it in both hands as if to restore it to life.

  “Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit,” Marcus stammered.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  Jake slid down the wall and sat next to the door of the small, grubby, gas-station bathroom, cradling his head in his hands. He'd had to put gas in the car, and he hadn't thought twice when Marcus said he needed to piss. He certainly hadn't noticed his missing cell phone. Truth be told, he had hoped to talk Marcus into staying here, hitching back home or something, so he could continue on his way alone.

  'He can't be trusted alone now,' advised a dark voice in his head. 'He has to come with us.'

  Jake groaned. “I know,” he said, feeling miserable. “I know.”

  'It doesn't matter,' it continued. 'We're halfway home.'

  “Shut up,” he commanded, but his whisper faltered and broke. He pressed his palms against his temples and shook his head.

  Jake wasn't sure how long he remained on that trashy piece of concrete before the bathroom door edged open. Marcus peered out, and started when their eyes met. Jake didn't move, but sat there, hoping he looked as pitiable and entirely not dangerous as he felt. Marcus kept his hand on the doorknob, and flipped the cell phone out onto Jake's lap.

  “Hey,” said Jake. “Thanks.”

  Marcus just glared at him through the decreasing crack in the door. “I called the detective,” he confessed in a hoarse voice, and edged the door further shut until just one eye could be seen through it. “It's dead. It died.”

  Jake shook his head again, uncomprehendingly. “What?”

  “The cell phone. It's dead.”

  He picked up the device and glanced at the small outside screen that normally displayed the time. It was blank. “Huh,” he said.

  Marcus seemed to be waiting for him to say something more.

  “Sorry,” Jake muttered. “I don't know why I was yelling. Sorry.” He lowered his hands and slouched further toward the concrete. “Too much has happened, man. I can't think straight anymore.”

  “Why don't we go home?” suggested Marcus in a small voice.

  The dark voice in his head keened, and Jake winced. “Can I come in there? I need to wash my face.”

  Marcus closed the door and Jake heard the click of the lock. He sighed.

  Many more minutes passed. The sun was blissfully warm on Jake's skin, and he rubbed his hands to warm them further. He'd found another band shirt in the back floorboards, more merch that didn't get sold at their gigs; now he and Marcus matched. He supposed it was funny, but he felt no mirth. He didn't feel much of anything, except an anxiety to get back on the road, and a strange crusty tightness on his forehead that he knew was his father's dried blood. Both were unpleasant.

  The door cracked open again. Jake looked up at his longest friend, who was still leering at him cautiously, the way someone would warily stare at a wild animal. “Dude, seriously. I need to wash my face.”

  “You scared the shit out of me,” accused Marcus.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Jake, did you do something to Peter?” Marcus was studying his face.

  Jake didn't have the energy to act affronted. “No, I didn't do anything to Dad. I thought he was crazy, but if he's crazy, than I am too.” He thought for a moment, and realized that might not have been the most reassuring thing to say. “Look, man, I'm fucked up. My mom's dead. My sister's dead. I'm pretty sure my dad's probably dead, I saw something eating him. I have blood on my forehead. And I really need a friend right now, okay? Really.”

  Marcus scrunched up his face. “Nobody else would have gone through this shit with you, man.”

  Jake fought another heavy sigh. “I know. Trust me, I know.” He paused. “Thank you,” he added. “You're like the only family I have left.”

  Marcus' face seemed to be struggling with itself, but he finally opened the door more fully and stepped back. “Okay, then, wash your face.”

  Relieved, Jake stood up, shaking out the pins and needles in his legs. A sudden wave of exhaustion threatened to overcome him and he leaned against the wall for support. He opened his eyes again and saw that Marcus was still studying him, warily. “Thanks,” he muttered, walking in and shutting the door behind him. Marcus flattened himself against the far wall while Jake made his way to the rusty sink and started scrubbing his face with his hands, bracing himself from the cold water.

  “You got some shit in your hair, too,” called Marcus, pointing vaguely at his own hairline.

  “Thanks,” muttered Jake again, and scrubbed further up his forehead.

  “You look trashed,” observed Marcus.

  Jake didn't answer. He felt trashed.

  “I don't think you should drive.”

  His head pounded in sudden pain, and Jake almost collapsed on the sink. Marcus reached forward to steady him, but then whipped his hand back. “I'm fine,” whispered Jake. “I have to know.”

  Marcus looked away and grimaced. “Maybe we could sleep for a while. Just stay here, sleep in the car, figure out what we're doing when we wake up?”

  The terribly familiar voice in his head voiced it's approval at Marcus' return to the pronoun 'we.' Jake's vision blurred at the mere thought of sleep. “We can't stop, man. You didn't see it. It's back there, but not forever.”

  “What's...?” Marcus trailed off and looked at the floor. “Fine. I'll drive a leg, so you can get some sleep.”

  Jake didn't like that solution, but the voice was silent on the matter. He nodded slowly. “Okay, but east. We go east.”

  Marcus nodded wordlessly and walked out of the bathroom. Jake paused a moment to look at his own reflection; he looked destroyed. Circles under his eyes so dark, they looked like bruises; he'd lost weight over the last few weeks he hadn't needed to lose. His hair was stringy and fell into his eyes in a clumpy, wet mass. He hardly recognized the pers
on staring back at him.

  He forced his feet to propel him out the door and back toward the car, where he saw a grim-faced Marcus sitting stiltedly in the driver seat. Good ol' Marcus, he thought with a sense of growing guilt. Loyal, dependable Marcus.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  Morgan considered asking her what had happened, but as she had gone a pale, ashy color and was simply staring at the phone, he chose instead to rewind the tape and hear the conversation for himself. He played the tape three times before looking back up at his partner, who was still blinking repeatedly at the phone, mouth drawn down into a pretty little frown.

  “Hmm,” he started, feeling the need to verbalize something but unsure of what to say.

  Harwood looked up at him and continued to blink. He stared back at her for a moment, watching her eyelids flutter in a weird Morse code.

  “So, okay,” he filled the silence again, revving himself up. “We go to the feds now.”

  Astonishingly, Harwood nodded and stood to accompany him out of the office without a word of reproach.

  14

  “You didn't recognize the number?” Agent Parker's voice was disbelieving and she leaned into Harwood's face. Morgan fought off a growl, feeling overly protective against the federal agent.

  “No, she didn't. I was right there,” he lied. “It happened just like she said it did. We were about to leave for the day, her phone started ringing. Because of the billions of things you women carry around in your purses, she didn't find the phone in time to answer it, and she called the number right back. As soon as she heard who it was, she waved me over to hear the conversation.” He shrugged. “It sounded pretty serious to me. Perhaps you should be following up on the lead instead of interrogating my partner.”

  Harwood sent him a look of such gratitude that, for a moment, he forgot how incredibly annoying she was ninety percent of the time. He didn't relinquish the certainty of how good “I told you so” would feel about this whole situation later, however. If there was one thing he hated to do, it was lie – especially to fellow cops or superiors, and now, he supposed federal agents, as well. And whatever Harwood's crazy suspicions were about these people, he'd seen their FBI badges and heard it from the Chief, so they were as good as federal agents in his mind.

  Agent Parker snarled at him, all of her beauty twisted into something ugly before his eyes. “Is that so, Detective? Well, it's good to know that you corroborate her story. I'll remember that.” Her tone sounded much more threatening now, and Morgan took an involuntary step backward.

  “That's all for now,” she said, turning away and waving dismissively at them, as though she had been the one to call the meeting.

  Harwood gaped. “Aren't you going? Where's your partner?”

  Parker turned back around, her face a mask of enduring patience. “Going where? Maryland? After a fairy tale of a story? No. Second, Agent Hanagawa's location is none of your concern. Thank you for volunteering your... 'information.' Good day.”

  Morgan joined his partner in gaping at the agent. “You have a neighbor's testimony that Jake O'Malley was seen running from the scene, covered in blood. Now you have a line on where he is, and with him is a guy who's scared enough to be around him that he calls the cops! What do you mean, 'No'? You guys have jurisdiction on this, and now it's interstate!”

  Parker's gaze landed on him. “Why, thank you for that concise rundown of OUR case, Detective. I'm glad to know that you still retain the facts at hand. I appreciate your concern, and of course, your input,” she replied, her tone making it clear that she didn't actually appreciate it at all. “Although, I have to say that you two seemed to accomplish very little with what you had, so your additional 'insight' is... well, pearls and swine and all that.” She pursed her lips. “However, the facts surrounding this case are classified at a much higher level than you are cleared. I'm afraid I cannot divulge any further information to you detectives at this time. Good day.”

  Morgan and Harwood exchanged a look of utter incomprehension. Harwood tried again. “Look, Agent Parker, I know we got off on the wrong foot, but you didn't hear the kid. He sounded petrified. And I think Jake was pounding on the door behind him. We have to get someone on their trail, or...”

  “Yes, that's too bad,” interrupted the woman. “I wish I could have heard it. I don't suppose there's any way I could hear it, could I?” Parker glared through them both, her eyes lingering on Morgan's coat pocket long enough to send a chill down his spine.

  'She knows about the recording,' thought Morgan, startled. He glanced at Harwood, and saw the same horrified confusion reflected on her face. 'That's impossible.'

  “Look,” Agent Parker sighed and her voice softened a bit. “I know it's hard when we sweep in and take over a case like this. Trust me, we are following several important leads.” She walked up to Harwood and placed a hand stiffly on her shoulder; it looked, to Morgan, like a mannequin posed in an uncanny semblance of sympathy. Plastic. “Perhaps you should take some time off. Travel. Get your mind off of things.”

  Harwood blinked hard. Morgan stifled a hysterical chuckle. “Excuse me, but are you advising my partner to follow a lead herself? On off-time? On a case that doesn't belong to us anymore?” He grinned madly. “Seriously? Why don't you just call in the locals along the line? This is beyond us.”

  Her glare was answer enough. “You look a bit overworked, too, Detective. Maybe it would do you both good to get away.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh! Look at the time.” Without further ado, she sashayed past them out the door.

  Morgan stared at the place where she'd been, his readied protestations of jurisdiction dying on his lips. “Look at the time? Does anyone actually say that? Christ.”

  Harwood fell limply into one of the leather chairs. The office the agents had taken over was in an adjacent building mostly rented by businesses; this office was four times the size of theirs, with floor-to-ceiling windows and much finer furniture. The disparity grated on Morgan more than he cared to admit. Suddenly more angry than he'd expected to be, he left Harwood and rushed out after the fed.

  Twilight had fallen early, as it always did in the chilly Midwest wintertime, and the last of the sun's rays were disappearing from view. He swept his gaze across the street but didn't see the blonde agent, just commuters stuck in traffic, grimly beginning their drive home. Frowning, he turned right and walked briskly to the end of the building, but instinct froze his legs just before bursting past the corner. He concentrated and heard low voices, one of them unmistakably Agent Parker's.

  “I know what I'm doing, Yori!” he heard her hiss, sounding like she was speaking through gritted teeth. Morgan's brow furrowed and he leaned as close as he dared to the edge of the wall. He knew there was a cramped alleyway between this office building and the next, though there were rarely troublemakers who dared cause problems so close to the police station down the street. There was some limited graffiti from gang members or hoodlums wanting the adrenaline high of essentially tagging right under the cops' noses, but the alley was usually clear of anyone except a stray dog or a homeless bum shuffling toward shelter.

  “Really? Because it looks like you're playing it loose, Charlie. What are you thinking? These are backwoods cops. They're not our type. Remember what happened last time.”

  Morgan's frown deepened. That didn't sound like the amiable Hanagawa.

  “I have an eye for instinct, okay? The guy's not much, but she's got something.”

  “All she's got is a temper, Charlie. Just like you. You always want the ones that could be your twin. She's probably a frigid bitch, too.”

  “That's unkind.”

  “Go fix it. Pull them off.”

  “If you're right, I won't have to. They won't go.”

  “What if we're both wrong? They go, and they're not good enough?”

  “He won't go.”

  “Okay, so she goes. And if you're wrong, and she's not good enough?”

  There was silence. Morgan began
to suspect that he should make his way back to Harwood lest he be caught eavesdropping on... on what? What was this? He strained to hear.

  “Then she's dead,” the woman whispered hoarsely.

  “Exactly. Just like last time.” Hanagawa sounded triumphant.

  Morgan turned on his heel and tried to keep his stride from morphing into a panicked run.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  Driving usually calmed Marcus down, but his stomach was cramping from anxiety and his head was pounding from sunlight and strangeness. It wasn't that Marcus didn't enjoy some adventure, but he preferred the safe sort, the adventure he might find in a movie or a video game, or at most, a short camping trip on the river with a case of beer and a quarter of weed. Otherwise, he was pretty much a homebody; he liked routine, liked his bachelor life of music, fast food, and a usually filthy crash pad. He wasn't a fan of blood and gore in real life, that much was certain. He also wasn't a fan of feeling danger was both behind him and ahead of him.

  He glanced over at Jake, who was sprawled in the passenger seat, and blissfully asleep. His mouth hung open and his hair fell into his face and stood up oddly all over his head. For a moment, he smiled at his friend's familiar sleep-sprawl, witnessed during so many childhood sleepovers and teen crash parties - until Marcus remembered his friend's strange recent behavior and their trip northeast. 'Why am I doing this?' he asked himself for the millionth time. He knew the answer, it was the same one he always came up with. He felt a kinship with the O'Malleys; they'd always treated him like part of their family – certainly more than his own family ever had. Jake was essentially his brother. He couldn't abandon his brother. Marcus was the only family Jake had left. He shivered at the realization.

  Still, the voice of self-preservation was rising in volume inside his skull, and twisting his insides painfully. Marcus had never been a fighter. He could run fast, his long legs could carry him away from danger very quickly. Fleeing was his preferred method of survival. So, while his mind rationalized his loyalty, his body was having a difficult time understanding why he was wedged into the tiny driver's seat and driving toward what he considered the epicenter of badness.