Dark Vessel (COIL Book 4), page 11
"I always do this to myself," she mumbled, perhaps directed at herself as much as at me. "Sometimes I leap before I realize what's at stake. You were a good man, I thought—a citizen reporting a crime."
"That was my intention," I said with clenched teeth, then I relaxed some. Nothing could help our situation if we were both tense. "I'm not a man to be arrested, Officer Oakes."
"No kidding. That's why I unclipped my holster, but you obviously saw that already." Her breathing had increased, probably matching her heightened heart rate. Years of predatory pursuits had toned my senses for such moments. But for her, it was just a job, and now she realized her job meant her life. "So, how do you suppose we proceed?"
"Perhaps you should walk back to the station." A map of the vicinity flashed in my memory. "The only head start I need is the one I create by getting you out of the car."
"So, you think you're that good, huh? In my town?"
"I know I'm that good."
"Well, I'm not content with getting out," she said softly. I was partially bothered by her stubbornness. And partially attracted. "But I'm not content with shooting you, either."
"And I'm not content with being shot."
"You're not leaving me much of a choice here, Luigi Brugnetti. I swore to protect, and what little I've learned from you, there are questions you need to answer. In the least, you're a wanted man. That's my guess."
"Having been in dozens of countries, I've faced countless enemies with varieties of weapons. You can't beat me, Officer Oakes. Now, I'll take your gun, and you'll step out of the car. I'll mail you your—"
She reached for her gun, but I was ready. The tight space hindered her speed, and the holster was high on her hip. Instead of grasping the gun myself, I reached across and clasped her wrist, then I drew the gun slowly with my other hand. I deposited the gun onto the floor behind her seat.
Now turned toward her in my seat, I watched her face turn from panic to surprise. She took two quick breaths, her eyes taking in my empty and exposed palms.
"What kind of crook are you?" She scoffed, as if disappointed I hadn't lived up to her accusations. "You just got rid of the gun."
"Get out of the car and walk away."
She frowned. Instead of reaching for the door handle, a smile slowly crept onto her face. It wasn't possible for me to hurt this strange woman. Her determination and fearless behavior reminded me of myself. Except her motives seemed pure, and mine seemed to have been tainted by myself.
"No. I don't think I will, Luigi Brugnetti."
"What? Go! I won't hurt you. When you look back, I'll be gone."
"That's exactly why I won't go. You won't hurt me. I believe you. And I don't want you to disappear."
I couldn't believe what she was doing to me. It made no sense!
"Leave! I have matters to attend to, lives that depend on me."
"Besides the lives of Savannah and Adam Perkins?"
"Good. You remember their names. Now their blood isn't on my hands. Go!"
"No, not until you tell me who you really are."
"Who I really am? You've already looked into my life with your detective eyes and exposed me wide open!"
"Yeah, but that's nothing. The faster you talk, the faster I'll walk away. Come on. You've made it clear that you're a good guy, so what have you got to hide? Out with it, Luigi Brugnetti."
"I . . . can't! You don't understand. This isn't happening."
"Hey, you came to us, remember. What did you think would happen?"
"You're right. This was a mistake. Leave!"
"Twenty years I've been a cop. I thought you were a good Samaritan. Then I thought I smelled a rat. Now, I think you're something in between."
"I'm a man with a bad past, but my present is intertwined with the life of a good man who needs me. I can't let him down."
"Who's this good man? Your boss?"
"No. Perhaps . . . my spiritual mentor."
"Where is this man? He told you to help Savannah and Adam?"
"No, but it's something he would've done." I shook my head. "This man is lost. I can't find him. He hasn't surfaced in nearly three weeks."
"Okay, so he's some sort of operative?"
"Stop doing that!" I growled under my breath and she watched as I fumbled with a gum wrapper and shoved a piece into my mouth. "Stop reading between my words."
"I can't help it." She laughed—at a moment like that! Now I seemed to be the one who was tense again. "All I do is read and file police reports that are barely legible sometimes. I have to read between the lines. So, you're some sort of operative?"
"Well, I was. Now I freelance."
"Are you a rogue agent?" She folded her hands. "Did you run away from your agency?"
"Years ago, yes. My mentor rescued me from that life. A terrible life. I've been spending my retirement watching over his family. He's retired, too, but he insists on helping people when all he gets is attacked for it."
"So, you're like his bodyguard?"
"His family's bodyguard, of sorts."
"Is his family safe while you're with me?"
"Yes. Please, let me go."
"Neither of us is a prisoner of the other. You've made that clear, Luigi. Drive if you want."
"No, I need you to get out. I can say no more. I insist. Get out now."
"Not without my Glock."
"I'll give it to you."
"When I get out? You better not mess with me, Luigi." She opened the door, thankfully reading the limit in my voice. "Okay, I'm out of the car."
Reaching into the back seat, I picked up the gun from the floor. After ejecting the clip and checking the chamber, I gave it back to her.
"You didn't have a bullet in the chamber, Heather," I said. "It would've done little for you to draw your gun earlier. Next time you're in the field, keep one in the chamber, even if it's against regulations."
"Okay, I'll keep that in mind. My clip?"
"I'll mail it to you. You'll protect Savannah Perkins and her son from Carl Dawson?"
"Of course, I'll do my best. Please, Luigi, you don't need to continue alone. I can tell you're torn. Let me help you. We can even meet privately. There are people who've done what you've done, and their records have been fixed legally. You don't have to live like this."
"Goodbye, Heather Oakes."
The passenger door swung closed as I drove away. Saving lives was so much harder than taking them.
*~*
Chapter 19
I wasn't so foolish as to trust the Franklinville station with the protection of Savannah and Adam Perkins. That's why I was parked on Pennsylvania Avenue down the road from their house later that night. Too much of my time and energy had already gone into the project to see the police bungle it.
Leaving my car hood raised, I crossed the street on foot and approached the house that had only one light on inside. Movement from within confirmed that Savannah was still awake, probably waiting for her brother, Carl Dawson, to arrive from the airport. From checking the airline arrival times, I knew he'd arrived in Newark two hours ago. He was due any minute.
After crossing the lawn, I paused behind a tree to peer at an unmarked police cruiser parked fifty yards down the street. Carl Dawson probably wouldn't know it was a police car. Was Heather in there? When passing headlights shined in the interior, I noticed only one person sitting in the front. I wondered under what circumstances the police would intervene.
My clothes were dark and shadows surrounded me. Nevertheless, I waited until another car drove toward the police sentry for my sprint behind the house and a high jump onto a propane tank. Operating on a predetermined route into the house, I leaped up, grabbed a thick windowsill, and drew myself up far enough to slide an upstairs window open.
Once inside, I stepped next to a clothes hamper and paused to close the window. I was in an upstairs bathroom. Upon leaving the room, I found myself in a short hallway, presumably leading to other bedrooms. In the other direction, I saw stairs and lamplight.
Moving toward the light, I discovered a balcony overlooking a cozy living room where Savannah Perkins sat in a soft chair reading a book. She could've looked up and seen me right then, but I stepped back until only my head was exposed. After a few minutes, it seemed she was doing her best to read, but her eyes kept drifting closed. Since all I knew about Carl and Savannah was restricted to Internet research, I wondered at Savannah's dedication to wait up so late for his arrival. It was nearly two o'clock. Did she fear him? Or suspect his intentions against her? I doubted it. Betrayal often comes from those closest.
As soon as she seemed to be asleep, I eased down the carpeted stairway and walked dangerously close to the twenty seven year old—close enough to touch her dark curls if I had wanted to. Instead, I moved behind her chair and slipped between the heavy drapes and the wall next to the window. Once in place, I realized the curtains weren't so thick and I was able to see through the fibers.
A few minutes later, headlights swept across the living room—revealing family photographs, a piano, and a collection of children's videos. Savannah was startled awake by a slamming door. She stood and stretched her five-two frame, then crossed to the front door near the kitchen. I took that instant to turn on my recorder—the wireless microphone disguised as a pen clipped to my collar.
Savannah opened the front door before Carl Dawson could knock. He was carrying a suitcase as he entered.
"Hey, Carl." She embraced him, but he didn't return the gesture. He only paused until she released him so he could continue into the house. "No flight problems?"
"Nothing important. Adam go to bed?"
"Hours ago. Don't you know what time it is?"
He walked past her to the kitchen and helped himself to a pitcher in the refrigerator. He drank straight from the container. After guzzling, he leaned against the counter. I definitely didn't like this man.
"We have to talk about Dad's inheritance."
"Carl, seriously?" She shook her head. "We already agreed. You and I are doing fine. We'll save it for Adam's medical, and then schooling if there's anything left."
"Things have changed, sis. I need a piece of it now, so I brought the papers for you to sign."
"No, Carl! We agreed already! Is this all you came down here for? You said it was about work or something. Are you gambling again?"
Taking a folder out of his suitcase, he set a pen on the counter.
"There's enough for Adam and me." He slid the forms toward her. "If you keep working, you'll earn enough for the two of you."
I stepped from behind the curtain before she could be persuaded to sign the forms.
"Am I interrupting?" I asked, already moving across the living room. Savannah drew back, terror on her face, but I caught her easily by the arm and covered her mouth from behind. "Don't make this difficult, Savannah."
She struggled, but I tightened my grip and held her in place.
"Nice timing, you idiot!" Carl hissed at me. He had reddish hair and a crooked nose. "She was about to sign the forms! That's how you get paid!"
"Well," I said softly, "now we make sure she signs, because I definitely want to get paid. How do we make sure she signs, Carl?"
"He'll kill Adam, Savannah," Carl told her. "Unless you sign. The money or the sick brat?"
I felt her tears on my hand that was still over her mouth. She reached for the pen and signed the forms so quickly, she missed the signature line completely.
"Look, you messed it up!" Carl snarled and cursed. He drew back a fist to strike Savannah.
"It's fine!" I moved her away a step, the guilt of my own actions bothering me, even though my part was a ruse. "Now what, Carl?"
"You know." He frowned at the papers. "I can make these work, I guess. Kill her and the brat, and wound me. Where's your gun? I told you this has to look like a robbery or something."
My recorder had enough. I spun Savannah from my arms and whipped off my belt. The buckle slashed across Carl's cheek. The look of surprise on his face lasted two speechless breaths before he crumbled on the kitchen floor. Turning, I snatched a cell phone from Savannah's hands the instant she began to dial.
"Please, not my baby!" She clutched at my clothes, begging. "Whatever he's paying you, I'll double it!"
"Say no more." I held up her phone to silence her. "Savannah, I won't hurt you or Adam. Carl Dawson is a wicked man. I came to stop him."
She peered around me to see her brother lying on the floor.
"Is he . . . dead?"
"No, just sleeping." I drew the recorder from my pocket and plucked out the digital card. "This is for the police. Call them as soon as I leave. A police car is outside, so they'll be only minutes."
"You're a police officer? Was this a . . . sting or something?"
"Or something." I held up a gun clip. "And make sure Officer Heather Oakes gets this, okay? Say it. Heather Oakes."
"Heather Oakes." She took the clip and digital card and held them close.
Moving toward the stairs, I looked back. She wiped her eyes, then nodded and smiled at me. That was my payment, I realized. And that was why Corban did the work he did—for those tearful moments of thanks. I'd received much money from many jobs, and I never felt as good as I did at that moment, receiving no money at all.
#######
"Franklinville Police Department. This is dispatcher Oakes. How may I assist you?"
"Hello, Heather."
A moment passed, and I imagined she was checking the recorders to ensure they were recording our phone conversation. I was two miles away at Mud Lake, about to throw my pre-paid cell phone into the reservoir.
"So, you took the law into your own hands, Mr. Brugnetti."
"Oh, Heather, we both know that's not my name."
"Yeah, I know. I ran you. I ran everything there was to run on you, even facial recognition software from a perfectly framed photo of you from the deli shop. So, I guess I can say I met a ghost."
"I'm sorry."
"Me, too."
Closing my eyes, I thought of Anna. Even my own sister couldn't be close to me. Why did I expect to find any closeness with a stranger?
"I wish things were different," I said.
"Me, too."
"Others need me."
"We live different lives. I think I understand. But someday, you'll have to stop running."
"I wish I could. Even though you made me nervous, I did enjoy our time together." Emotion warmed my face. "Seldom do I feel anything, Heather, so I mean it as a compliment that you made me feel something."
"Something?"
"Something good." I sighed, wanting to talk longer, but having no words. "I must go now."
"Luigi?"
"Yes?"
"Call me again. I mean, someday. When you can. If you can. I think you're a good man."
With that, I threw the phone into the water. I had vindicated the afflicted, but it seemed to have cost a part of me.
*~*
Chapter 20
Forty-eight hours later, I was riding up the Buriganga River in Bangladesh behind a sputtering motor. The vehicle was a wood plank boat as narrow as a canoe. Torrential rain had decreased visibility to one hundred yards, which reminded me it was the monsoon season in Southeast Asia.
I was still thinking of Officer Heather Oakes as I paid my driver five dollars—probably the largest tip of his life—then stepped out of the kheya nouka taxi onto a cement pier two inches under water. Like the residents around me, I splashed inland without regard for the wet weather, though I seemed to be the only one with five-hundred-dollar duck boots. The shore crowd moved about with umbrellas, but I wore a hood attached to my waterproofed windbreaker.
The cement pier ended at a sandbank where palm trees and higher ground weren't under muddy water like the rest of the island. Though this island looked like all the others, I'd been assured this one was indeed the char, or mid-stream island, I was looking for. Following memorized instructions from a Red Cross nurse who'd spoken English in Dhaka, I walked north through the palms. Around me, men and boys were tearing down their sectioned houses of corrugated metal to move to another char. Each char changed with every rainy season. With every rainy season, their home changed, but this was the only life they knew.
"Zabir Mobad?" I asked an elderly man who was supervising his multi-generational family as they moved his home toward waiting boats. He pointed with a smokeless pipe to the north, though the island that was only one square mile was under water to the north. I was about to do some more wading.
Three more halted conversations in Bengali led me to the deconstructed residence of Zabir Mobad.
"The Red Cross sent me to help you," I said in English. Zabir Mobad, naked to the waist, stood in a foot of water below me, tying a section of his dwelling to a floating island of hyacinth plants—which evidently doubled as their garden. Two other men, six women, and a dozen children climbed on the floating island or waded in the water to hold the island steady.
Zabir Mobad stopped working to look up at me.
"Two weeks ago, the Red Cross was here," he said in good English, confirming what the nurse had assured me. "They could not help me then, and they cannot help me now."
He lifted a bamboo table up to his family.
"The Red Cross sent me, I said." A boy of about three leaped from the floating island into my arms. He smiled and wiggled, but I wasn't in a playful mood. The flight had been long and the rain had soured my mood. I tossed the boy back onto the hyacinth plants. "But I am not a Red Cross worker."
"What does that mean?" The man stopped working again.
"I'm here to get your daughter back." A second child jumped into my arms, but I threw her back onto the island. "You may even know who took her, I was told. That could make my job easier."
When he stepped closer to me, I looked into eyes that knew pain and strife like few others.
"She was my eldest daughter. No one talks to them and lives." He drew his thumb across his throat. "Do you think I am a coward?"
"You're not a coward. You're a father who has many other children."
