The Translator: A Suspense Thriller, page 11
A painstaking task that takes only a few minutes, just a pair of things jumping out at her.
One, she has been aware of – even working at – for some time now.
The other, something there to serve a very different purpose. An item she has not considered before, only now viewing its potential through the lens of desperation.
A state she is not excited to be under, though nothing else seems a possibility.
Especially as the burst of recent activity makes it quite apparent that the man is building to something. Some goal that is approaching fast, meaning whatever purpose she is here to serve will likely be ending as well.
A finale she can’t see herself being anything more than collateral damage to, his complete disregard for her well-being already proven with a track record too long to recall with certainty.
For weeks now, she has been working at the mortar along the back wall. A way of loosening one of the bricks held there, hoping for some window to the outside.
At the very least, to have something solid she can use as a weapon. A means of protecting herself the next time he charges in.
A process that has destroyed her fingers and left her beyond frustrated.
One that seemed like a lost cause as recently as a day before. Time prior to considering the second item in the room. The thing she shifts her focus to, staring down at the plastic bucket that has been her bathroom for days too many to count.
A common object that alone doesn’t present a whole lot of upside.
Except for maybe the metal handle affixed to the top of it.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Too damn long, Fitz has waited. Too many nights sitting awake, staring up at the bottom of the top bunk above him. Endless hours spent counting the blue and white pinstripes on the underside of the mattress, replaying things in his mind.
Remembering how it all went down. The words that were used. The expressions on their faces.
The sheer joy they got from loading him up and sending him away.
Unending months spent waiting for his opportunity. Going through the paces of standing before the parole board year after year. Doing his best to appear contrite, saying all the things he thought they wanted to hear.
Things done only to be continually denied. Struck down by a panel of people that clearly thought they were better than him. Folks that he would get to in good time, but not before seeing to those most important first.
A list that he started on two months ago, beginning with the person most responsible. The detective that was the lead on the case. The man that had gotten up at trial and detailed every last thing Fitz had done. Put on a display that was nothing short of stage worthy, putting extra emphasis on each point made. Facial cues and hand gestures and anything he could surmise to add to his little display in front of the jury.
People that had sat and ate every bit of that shit up.
Gobbled it down without once considering if what he was saying was the complete and unfettered truth. If it hadn’t been doctored a little for dramatic effect.
If perhaps they shouldn’t have been falling into the common trap of accepting every word shared as gospel merely because he had a badge clipped to his belt.
A man that always sprang instantly to mind whenever one of the other inmates asked him what he was in for. Every time the jailhouse counselor tried to discuss why he was there, looking to elicit some sort of answer steeped in soul searching.
An acceptance in responsibility, as if the time he wasted inside wasn’t a direct result of one Detective Devlin Lyons.
A fact that imbued the months spent after finally gaining his freedom with a singular focus. A purpose that bordered on maniacal, every moment that wasn’t spent at the menial job he was forced to hold or meeting with his parole officer aimed at a singular goal.
One that paid off beautifully along the side of the road that cold winter’s day. A spot that saw Devlin’s Sunday drive end in spectacular fashion, the front of his vehicle wrapped around the trunk of an oak tree somewhere between his home and the police station he worked out of.
An eventuality that wasn’t quite what Fitz had in mind when slipping into his garage and making a few minor adjustments to his department-issued sedan, but worked out just as well.
Perhaps, even better.
An outcome that was slow and painful, the man sitting in the cold for more than twenty minutes, waiting for help that didn’t arrive in time. A finish that was almost poetic, mimicking the many times Fitz experienced the same while in prison.
Moments of knowing that danger was closing in. Times hoping that help would arrive. That his calls for aid would be answered.
Hopes and pleas that went completely unanswered.
Instances that Fitz was able to survive while his opposition did not, proving who is the better man.
After the elimination of the detective, Fitz’s attention turned to his sidekick. The private investigator turned consultant that was said to be born with a special ability. An affinity that gave him inside access in the aftermath of a crime.
Urban legends that Fitz never believed in the slightest, the stuff sounding more like a weak premise for a weekly procedural on network television than something that could really occur.
A stance he maintained right up until the moment it was used against him. Details and information that could only be gleaned through the type of thing the man was rumored to be able to do. A skill that Fitz still doesn’t fully understand, knowing only that after the detective, Leonard Walsh is the man most responsible for what happened.
The second person on the list that needs to be dealt with. Receive full retribution for all that took place.
A task that Fitz fell to the very next morning after finishing Lyons. A steadfast goal he has pursued to little effect, the man having virtually disappeared soon after Fitz went away.
No more working cases. No mention of him in online searches or databases. No property transactions. Public speaking engagements. Book publishing deals.
Not even an obituary to explain the sudden vanishing.
Time spent with absolutely nothing to show for it that had caused Fitz to shift his approach. Use the only point of reference he had for the man, going after the daughter of his former partner. A plan that allowed him to combine something he missed so much, something that had put him on Devlin and Walsh’s radar and eventually landed him in prison, with the only thing he could think of that might lure Walsh out.
A scheme that he let simmer for six weeks, keeping the girl tucked away, before finally deciding it was time.
A plan that should already be rewarding him with progress, but thus far has shown very little of the sort. Nothing in his previous visits out to the cemetery where the detective is buried. No sign of Walsh at the apartment earlier. Only the faint impressions in the mud at the grove outside of town.
Limited return, but nowhere near what Fitz was expecting.
A fact he fully intends to hurry along as he turns the lock and jerks the door to the cellar open. Ire born of spending most of the day waiting in the chilly air for a target that never showed, he stomps down the stairs into the concrete bunker.
Mashing his feet against the planks comprising the steps, he makes no effort to mask the sound of his approach. In his hands are none of the provision he usually arrives with.
This being a visit not to continue sustaining the young girl hidden in one of the cells before him, but to use her to make a statement that Leonard Walsh will no longer be able to ignore.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“If it’s all the same to you, I think that’s enough for today,” Leo Martz says as Henry eases the car up alongside Jade’s Honda on the front drive. A spot chosen to allow the woman to hop straight out before heading directly into the garage.
A quick exit that will see Leo jam the headphones resting atop his knee down over his head first, not trusting even a quick moment with the door open.
Not after the last couple of days he’s had.
The risk is just too great.
“I’d offer for you to come inside for dinner, but...” he adds, letting the joke fall away short of the punchline. Something about not having had a chance to stock the meat freezer for her yet that drifts off before becoming fully formed.
Thoughts still clearly elsewhere, Jade nods. Having been almost completely quiet since leaving the cemetery, she murmurs something too low to be discerned. Words that fade after barely passing her lips before nodding to the headphones.
Resting her hand on the door handle beside her, she waits as he lowers them into place before climbing out.
A quick burst of cold air and a flutter of green fingernails before the door is swung shut again. The world returns to just Leo and Henry, the latter nudging the car forward a few feet. Enough space for them to ensure Jade gets into her vehicle and begins to pull away before they head on toward the side of the house.
A quick journey along the same gravel path that forms the turnabout out front. A distance of no greater than fifty yards before passing through the gaping maw of the garage door into a space large enough to hold several vehicles.
Sports cars and motorcycles and even a pickup truck.
Items that were all purchased more than a decade before. Machinery that has not been moved beyond the occasional jaunt courtesy of Henry to ensure they still run.
Pieces that were purchased by Leo back in his younger days. Long ago, before the sounds grew to such an overwhelming level. A time when he was willing to trade the occasional moment of difficulty in the name of appearance.
Having the biggest or the fastest vehicle on the road.
The kind of thing a young man gifted with money and a great power does before realizing what a curse both can be.
His focus turned to the side, Leo lets his vision blur. His eyes glaze, reducing the vehicles down to nothing more than shapes. Splashes of color that barely register as he sits waiting for the garage door to lower back into position.
A move that is completely habit at this point, allowing the singular piece to fit itself down into the specially designed casing. Yet another of the many enhancements made to the home to accommodate his particular sensitivities.
A moment that turns into several more as he sits staring out, his thoughts still on what happened at the cemetery earlier. A replay of the full events that makes it nearly all the way to the end before being interrupted by Henry asking, “Are you okay, sir?”
Knowing his friend is referring to far more than his simply making no effort to climb out, Leo replies, “Just thinking.”
“Hm,” Henry answers. A sound of contemplation before adding, “I must confess, the girl’s reaction was a bit different than what I was expecting as well.”
“Yes,” Leo agrees, “but that wasn’t what I meant. Not even the girl I was referencing, actually.”
Enough to cause Henry to turn in the front seat, the man asks, “You mean...?”
“Out at the cemetery,” Leo replies, shifting to match his gaze. “I heard all the usual stuff. All the pain from the various funerals. People’s voices, their heartache.
“But this time, there was something new.”
“Brenda has been there recently,” Henry says, jumping ahead.
“Not just that,” Leo confirms, “I heard her say my name.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Back in her high school days, when Jade Kane still believed in things like having close girlfriends and tuning in to weekly episodic television, one of her favorite activities was to have the gang over to watch Lost. One of the few shows she could tolerate without sneering, loving the catchphrase that her friends developed to describe each new chunk they watched.
One question answered, forty-two new ones posed.
A mantra that she can’t help but call to mind as she sits behind the steering wheel of her Honda, still trying to make sense of whatever the hell she just witnessed.
A scene that Leo Martz was right to wait and show her in person. The kind of thing that couldn’t just be explained.
Damned sure wouldn’t have been believed.
Riding on a steady drip of venom and irritation for the better part of two days, all of it dissipated in an instant. A complete system reset the likes of which she has never experienced.
The sort of thing she’s only heard about from people desperate to prove that whatever spirit or presence is inhabiting their home or barn is real.
A classic example of something she would normally use as a cold open for one of the stories going out to her private list serve. A setup for a tale that will turn out to be nothing more than a hoax, everybody getting a good chuckle at the lengths some people will go to.
In the place of the latent hostility that normally serves as her baseline is a feeling bordering on fascination. Genuine wonder at what she just saw. Burning questions about the things he described and the effects it seemed to have on him.
Even a bit of jealousy that she too couldn’t experience the same thing. Get a peek behind what was pushing the breeze through her hair earlier. What was really underpinning the rattle of barren tree branches above.
Honda parked along the side of the road no more than a couple of miles from Leo’s home, Jade sits in the same place she has been for the last five minutes. A small turnout with the heater running and the radio off, trying to make sense of what took place.
The information shared and how it feeds into the case that suddenly makes a lot more sense.
Even if, as her friends used to point out, answering that question has now led to forty-two others.
Flicking her gaze to the glowing green digits of the clock inset in the dashboard, Jade runs the numbers in her mind. If she were to leave and head home right now, she could be back sometime between eight and eight-thirty. Early enough not to draw too much ire from Kore. To allow herself to stop at the market along the way or to even try defrosting something that isn’t vodka from her freezer.
Notions that would normally seem appealing, this time dispelled in only an instant. Consciously shoved aside in the name of those forty-two new questions.
Things that cannot wait.
Grabbing her cellphone from the passenger seat beside her, Jade goes straight to the Google search bar on the home screen. In dire need of both food and a solid wifi connection, she orders it to search for the closest restaurants near her.
A command that is rewarded with three blinking dots before her. The standard response stating that the device is thinking, trying to push through the extremely thin reception along the road.
A process Jade allows to play out for the better part of a minute before tossing the phone back onto the seat beside her.
Barely does it have time to land before she jerks the gear shift into drive and pulls away.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jade’s preference would have been to find a McDonald’s or Starbucks. Some gaudy modern affair with bright lighting and neon signage where she can post up in the corner with her laptop and scroll to her heart’s content.
Her one aborted search had already told her this wasn’t going to be the sort of thing to be done on her phone. A job needing much more than a couple of square inches of screen with a crack running diagonally through the middle of it.
Especially in a place with reception as spotty as the turnoff alongside the road.
Finding neither a fast-food restaurant nor a chain coffee shop particularly close to where she was, she’d been forced to pull in to the first place she spotted. A diner with a name attributed to the owner tucked along a state two-lane.
The kind of place that is probably jam packed first thing in the morning. Truckers or blue-collar workers lined shoulder to shoulder along the counter splitting the place down the middle.
A scene serving as a proper callback to past decades, right down to the chrome stools affixed to the floor and the smells of coffee and bacon in the air.
One serving as a distinct counterpoint to how Jade finds things now. A complete inversion with the clock ticking steadily past eight, the world outside already dark.
Just enough light spills from the windows lining the front of the place to illuminate Jade’s Honda and a pair of other vehicles parked in the gravel lot outside. A dented F-150 belonging to the man wearing denim and flannel at the bar, his hand never leaving the coffee mug that is on its fourth refill just since Jade arrived.
Beside it, an aging Buick that delivered the elderly couple on the far opposite end of the row of booths lining the front of the place. A man and woman with a combined age north of a buck fifty out for their weekly date night.
Or so Jade had heard the server mention as she seated them.
A comment that made her look up from her computer for only a second before pushing her focus back down.
Brows brought together, she stares at the screen before her. Another string of listings spit back by a search engine that, thus far, continues to yield precious little. A series of dead ends that has her frustration climbing as she clears the search bar once more.
The moment her bottom had touched down on the padded bench seat in the corner of the establishment, she’d popped open her computer and went straight to Google. Enduring the saccharine greeting of the middle-aged waitress in jeans and apron, she’d asked for coffee and a few minutes to peruse the menu.
Time that had not been wasted looking at the single laminated sheet with cracking corners as she dove right into the reason for her being here.
A search that had started with Leo Martz. And then Leonard Martz. And then both names with the addition of Massachusetts.
Wellesley, Massachusetts.
