Acoustic Shadows (18 page)

The sun resembled a bloody egg yolk as it peeked up over the concrete and asphalt wasteland of Orlando, casting an ochre tint on Erica’s already jaundiced face. She had reclined the seat of the Chrysler 300 and fallen asleep as she tried to summon the courage to go into the Gaylord Palms Hotel and find any accomplices of the men who tried to kill her, as if they were going to be standing around with signs around their necks that read ‘BAD GUY’.

Through the night, Erica had followed the green line of the car’s GPS. The trail had brought her to the gargantuan hotel sprawled out before her, detouring only once when she’d spied an all-night Walmart off I-95. She’d walked into the chain store carrying one of the Lopez brothers’ jackets over her hands to hide the cuffs, though, looking around at some of the late-night shoppers, she realized none of them would’ve given two shits about a lady in handcuffs. In the auto parts department, she found a set of bolt cutters and, as nonchalantly as she could, placed them on the counter with an Arizona Iced Tea and three twenty dollar bills. The white-haired clerk with eyeglasses as thick as coke bottles didn’t have time to give her a receipt before she was out the door.

In a dimly lit parking lot, she managed to get the chain that linked the handcuffs into the jaws of her new bolt cutters while balancing the cutters between her thighs. Then, she squatted down on the handles with her butt, hoping she still weighed enough to snap the links. She had to do a little bouncing, but she succeeded. Now, she sported a stylish stainless steel bracelet that looked exactly like one end of a handcuff. Biker chic. If only she had time to stop for a tattoo.

She got back on the road and continued following the route on the GPS that led her here. She stared at the entrance to the hotel, marvelling at its Disney castle-look, the winding entrance lined with expensive cars, and wondering what her next move should be, as she sipped the tea. The Sig was in her lap, feeling as if it weighed fifty pounds. It was well made, expensive, like an exotic sports car. She ran her fingers along the barrel of the gun, admiring its sleek hardness, its cool surface. She’d always hated guns, the deadly and final look of them. What they stood for. Their sheer criminality. Now, she looked at the weapon and felt her heartbeat speed up, not just in anticipation of using it in a firefight to avenge herself and her family, but because it was
attractive
in some odd way. Like the sports car, it was a symbol of speed, danger, money, and possibly death, and that no longer frightened her. It beckoned her.

Her stomach growled, and it dawned on her that she might not be doing her best thinking right now. She looked around and saw a Waffle House sign poking up from a range of palmetto bushes. She cranked the car and drove over. Looking into the glove box, she found some expensive wrap-around sunglasses and put them on. There was a little straw fedora in the back seat, and she pushed it onto her head and looked into the rear-view mirror. Yep, she looked like someone trying to disguise herself. But, she thought, a waitress at a Waffle House wasn’t going to go out of her way to try to identify a missing person while earning minimum wage and worrying about how she was going to buy groceries for three kids. Besides, with the dye job, hat, and sunglasses, along with her newly acquired gaunt complexion, she looked like any other druggie creeping in for an end of night, eat-before-I-go-home-and-crash meal.

Erica pushed the pistols under the seat and went inside for breakfast. She ordered waffles, bacon, eggs over easy, coffee with cream, and a glass of milk from a red-eyed waitress who smelled like pot and had a tattoo of an angel on the back of one hand and one of a butterfly on the other. Her fingernails were chewed to the quick. She said she liked Erica’s hat.

It was a lot of food. In spite of her hunger, Erica found she could not finish. Her stomach twisted in on itself like an eel eating its own tail, but she managed to keep the meal down.

She climbed back into the car and returned to the Gaylord. This time, she did not wait. She went inside, her untucked shirt covering the Sig nestled into the top of her pants, a round already chambered. She approached the welcome counter and told the man at the front desk she had been shit-faced the night before and lost her billfold with her room key. Removing her sunglasses, she widened her blue eyes. The young man was quickly lost in them, despite being at least ten years her junior.

‘Your name?’ he asked, hopefully, a gentrified southern twang in his voice. The name tag on his jacket read ‘Cary,’ and under that: ‘Knoxville, Tennessee’.

‘Lopez,’ she answered.

He looked at a computer screen, frowned. ‘Is that A. Lopez or E. Lopez?’

‘A,’ she answered calmly and without hesitation.

He quickly printed a new card and placed it in an envelope, scribbling her room number on the inside flap; Room 527. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms Lopez?’

Erica smiled and dropped her eyes, then raised them back up. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll let you know.’

Splotches of red appeared on the young man’s face as she turned away.

In the lobby, a huge flat screen TV caught her eye. THN was on, and the reporter she’d previously seen covering the school shooting was interviewing someone. She stepped closer to hear the broadcast.

‘In an exclusive report you will only see here,’ the reporter, Dave Gruber, was saying, ‘we are interviewing Agent Justin Thiery from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and Special Agent Sara Logan from the FBI. Agent Thiery, will you please tell our TV viewing audience what you told me a few moments ago?’

Thiery squinted into the bright camera light. ‘Last night,’ he began, ‘while searching for Erica Weisz, the teacher who allegedly shot the two intruders at Travis Hanks Elementary School, a group of armed men stormed a house in Lake Wales. I believe Ms Weisz had been there and that these men intended to do her harm. Upon my arrival at the residence, I found several men had been shot, some were deceased, and one man, who has been identified as Alejandro Lopez, was firing an assault weapon. Per my duty as a law enforcement officer, I ordered him to cease firing and lay down his weapon. He did not comply and, instead, pointed his weapon at me, at which point I was forced to fire upon him. He was killed, as was another man we believe to be his brother. Before my arrival, they had shot and killed four other men. The names of the deceased are being held pending notification of their families, but we can reveal that one of those men was the father of David Coody, who was one of the gunmen shot at the school.

‘At this time, and per my department’s protocols,’ Thiery continued, ‘I am being placed on administrative leave, pending an investigation of the fatality caused by the discharge of my weapon. This was a witnessed, justified shooting. Still, under the circumstances, I can no longer represent the FDLE as lead on this case. Therefore, FBI Special Agent Sara Logan is taking over until further notice.’

The camera swung back dramatically to Gruber’s face. The video clip had been shot in the wee hours of the morning and it was obvious that Gruber had just woken up. Pillow creases still lined his otherwise perfect face, and he seemed a little off his game. ‘Uh, Miss, er, Agent Logan,’ Gruber stammered, ‘now that you’re lead on this still evolving case, can you tell us what the FBI’s primary concerns are? And where will the case go from here?’

Looking relaxed, her cheeks still flushed from the romp she’d scored with Thiery, Logan stepped into the light, and kept it short and sweet. ‘I’ve been working with Agent Thiery for the past few days’ she announced. ‘He is a competent, professional law enforcement officer who’s done a very efficient job handling this tragic and senseless crime. We are currently tracking where the guns used at the school were purchased and, of course, we’re still trying to find Erica Weisz. To that end, Agent Thiery has requested to add one last comment.’ Logan stepped back and, once again, Thiery looked into the camera.

‘Erica Weisz,’ he began, his eyes focused as if on her face, ‘if you are in a place where you can hear this broadcast, I want you to know, I know what happened.’ The camera man, at the urging elbow of Gruber, zeroed in on Thiery’s face as he continued. ‘I
know
what is going on. I
know
you’re running to protect yourself. You don’t have to run anymore. This is my personal cell phone: 850-256-1900. Please call. My department, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, Agent Logan, here, and the FBI will protect you. So will I. You have my word. Please stop running and give us a call. If you are physically able to call us, you must do this as soon as possible, before other people are placed in jeopardy. Thank you.’ Thiery stepped away from the podium.

‘Wait a moment, Agent Thiery, can you explain that?’ asked Gruber, coming after Thiery like a pit bull, his cameraman desperate to keep up. ‘What do you mean by “you’re running to protect yourself?” What, or who is she running from?’

‘No further comment,’ said Thiery, waving his hand as he walked away.

‘Agent Logan …?’ Gruber tried, but she waved him off, too.

Gruber, his eyes red from lack of sleep, stared into the camera and, for the first time since he’d been in broadcast journalism, had nothing to say. ‘Er, uh, there … you … have it: the latest in this increasingly bizarre case; a case that started off as a school shooting, but has spawned other violence throughout this rural county in the heartland of Florida. We will keep you informed as we learn of any developments. Now, back to you, Gail …’

Moral woke up and turned on the TV, glad to be alive. Oddly, the only reason he was still breathing was because Erica Weisz had managed to escape again. Even he could find slight humour in that she was named after Houdini, the world’s greatest escape artist.

When he’d arrived at Julio Esperanza’s room at the Gaylord the previous night, his tail metaphorically tucked between his legs, he’d been greeted by De De Davies, a mountain of a man who’d immediately thrown his arm around Moral’s neck and squeezed. It felt like a python wrapped around his throat. Blood pushed into his head until he thought his eyes would pop out. He was beginning to lose consciousness when a local news flash reported the gun battle on Guava Lane in Lake Wales, along with the deaths of the Lopez brothers.

Julio quickly came to the conclusion that, with the Lopez brothers down, the woman had escaped again, and the only link he had to her – though it was a weak one – was Moral. He ordered Davies to let him go. Gasping for air as he writhed on the floor, Moral listened to Julio give him a pardon.

‘Robert, I think you can hear me,’ he calmly addressed the US Marshal, as if discussing interesting stock options he’d seen on TV. ‘I was going to kill you tonight. Your usefulness has been questionable compared to your debt to my family. What you did for us three years ago alleviated some of that debt and gave us confidence in your ability, and your access to
information
has been valuable. Since then, you’ve become indebted to us again and again, with higher amounts each time. We’ve tried to let you work it off, but, aside from giving us the location of your so-called protected witness, you really aren’t worth much to us. Do you understand what I am saying to you?’

‘Ye … yes,’ Moral croaked painfully.

‘Good. So you understand your value, and the best way to enhance that value is to either bring that woman back to us or kill her yourself. Do you understand?’

Moral rolled over and pushed up to his hands and knees.

Anichka had been watching the pathetic man with increasing agitation; being summoned all the way there for a hit that hadn’t materialized had tested her patience. Her expenses would be paid, but, if not actually part of the kill, she wouldn’t get a piece of the big bonus. All she was essentially doing was spinning her wheels. The only good that
had
come of any of this, so far, was screwing De De, again. That big Canuck could make her putty in bed. She strode over to Moral and kicked him in his ass, her kick going right into his rectum, causing him debilitating discomfort and humiliation. She fought the desire to kill him, just for being a loser.

Moral went spread-eagle, and the contents of his bowels spilled into his boxers. He lay there whimpering, the combined scents of liquor-stained hotel carpeting and excrement in his nostrils.

Julio laughed as though he was watching stand-up comedy. Davies looked at Anichka with renewed lust and admiration.

The following morning, Moral rolled out of bed, his ass still tender from the night before, a spot of blood in the fresh boxers he’d slipped into after showering, his head humming from emptying the room’s bar of all its little bottles. But it felt good to be alive another day. Reaching for the remote, he turned up the volume as the latest breaking news report came on.

He wasn’t worried about the overzealous FDLE agent. Guy looked like a former college football player who was handed a job to act like a cop. Big, not brilliant. But, he decided to look him up, see what his background was in case they ran into each other. He grabbed his laptop and Googled Thiery to see if anything popped up.

What a surprise. He was the cop whose wife went missing some ten years ago.
Could it be?
he wondered to himself.
Was the world really that small?
His mind raced, but he came to the conclusion it didn’t matter. He rationalized his connection, made it jibe in his own head, and put it aside. ‘Gamblers do that,’ one counsellor had told him when he was trying to stop his addiction. ‘They rationalize their failures.’
So the fuck what?
he’d said, leaving the counsellor’s office that day, and on his way home, heading for a late afternoon poker game held in the back of a billiard hall.

Still, the FBI’s involvement bothered him. They didn’t usually tangle with his department, because they were aware of the importance of protecting a witness’s identity, but they could get access to individual cases if they believed them to be part of an ongoing federal investigation. This was turning into just that.

‘
Fuck!
’ Moral muttered to himself, no longer as thankful to be alive as he was when he first woke up. He tried to remember when he had identified the Coody kid as a potential candidate for the school shooting and the hit on Erica Weisz. He had used an FBI-linked database – legal, due to the Patriot Act – that allowed federal investigators to scan a citizen’s home computer when they searched for or purchased large amounts of guns, ammunition, chemicals, or explosives. Once he found young Coody and determined he was a suitable candidate, he’d approached him on an anarchist chat site called blackenedflag.org.