Bringer of Fire (10 page)

“I wouldn’t try going to your home tonight,” Sanders recommended. “It’s going to be an active crime scene overnight. And I’ll want some time to look over your place, as well. Get a hotel room.”

I watched her drive away before noticing that my Dodge Avenger had been moved and was parked in the street in front of a neighbor’s house. I read the note that had been tucked under the windshield wiper blade.

Mr. Bringer,

Your car is parked in front of our home and we’re happy to give your keys to you when you’re ready for them. Don’t worry about how late it is when you come by.

Regards,

Beth and Joe Torrence

Lexi had friendly neighbors, and she’d always spoken highly of the Torrences. Despite what their note stated, I apologized to them for the late hour and promised to give their best wishes to my family.

I called Kevin and he told me that he, Lexi, and the kids were staying in a local hotel. With few other options myself, I stopped by a Walmart to purchase a fresh set of clothes and some personal items, and then stayed at the same hotel. It was somehow reassuring that I would be closer to my family in case they needed me.

Regardless of the late hour, my mother had left a couple of voicemails insisting that I call her immediately once I received her messages. To my surprise, she sounded wide awake when I called. I tried to reassure her that I was fine, and that most of all, Lexi, Kevin, and the kids were unharmed. Honestly, I’ve never worried as much about myself as others have. And, quite frankly, there’s nothing like trying to convince your Mom at 2 a.m. that being involved in a house fire and a shooting in the same night was “nothing for her to worry about.”

In fact, I had a hard time believing it myself.

* * *

The next morning, I called my boss, Larry Anderson, and briefly explained what had happened the previous evening. He’d seen the news and was more than willing to excuse me from work for a few days. Larry was someone you’d call “good people.”

I’d barely been off the phone for two minutes before I received a call from my best friend, Travis, who’d also seen the stories on the local news and wanted far more details than I felt comfortable revealing. Given the violent nature of the mysterious assailants in my life, I somehow felt that it was probably safer for him if he knew less versus more.

I stopped by my sister’s room to check on her and the kids. They planned to stop by their home in the morning just long enough to pick through some personal belongings and then travel to Mom and Dad’s house. Somehow, Kevin had managed to sell Lexi on the plan, but I could tell that she was wrestling with herself over leaving with so many things left unattended. A part of me didn’t want to see them go, either, but I couldn’t watch over them while also delving further into whatever was going on.

A part of me wondered if my family would be safe merely leaving town, but there was little else that I could do, until either the authorities uncovered further evidence or I somehow single-handedly managed to bring additional evidence to light. That realization seemed insurmountable in my mind, but I forced such thoughts aside. It was precisely what my elusive “enemies” would want.

“I’ve got to at least be able to put a tangible
name
to these damned people,” I muttered.

I’d just reached into my pocket for the keys and remote to my Dodge Avenger to head to a local cafe for some breakfast when Agent Sanders pulled up behind my vehicle and rolled down her window.

“Well, you’re up early,” she said. “How do you feel about a working breakfast?”

“Working? I’ll have you know I’ve got the day off,” I said.

“Correction, you
had
the day off,” she said with wry expression.

The gleam in her hazel eyes appeared almost playful, and I couldn’t help but grin. Besides, who could resist an offer from a face like hers?

Not me.

“Working breakfast, eh? That’s the best offer I’ve had all morning,” I said and walked around to the passenger side of her car.

Within the hour, we sat at Sanders’ desk eating breakfast. I eyed her all-organic bagel and yogurt as I spooned away at my Styrofoam container of hot oatmeal.

“Health food advocate?” I asked.

“Healthy body, healthy mind,” she chirped, staring at the large bottle of sports drink before me. “Though oatmeal and Gatorade seems like an odd combination.”

I had to admit that my new liquid dietary supplement was peculiar.

“Believe it or not, it’s sort of the same for me,” I hedged. “One for body, one for brain.”

She frowned but didn’t inquire further. For the time being, it was my own little inside joke.

“How’s Agent Burroughs?” I asked.

“He’s stable and resting comfortably,” she replied simply. “His prognosis is good.”

I nodded. “That’s good news.”

“We should probably go over events from yesterday one more time before we take a look around your house. The police said the interior had been rifled through,” Sanders said in a voice that sounded once more like a practiced FBI agent; all business.

I must’ve been foggy-headed last night, because suddenly questions were clearly forming in my mind based upon what Sanders had just said.

“What was he looking for?” I asked.

“An excellent question,” she said, spooning up the remainder of her yogurt. “However, the fact that your assailant tried to kill you suggests that maybe he’d found what he was looking for.”

“Hm,” I mumbled as I finished my oatmeal.

Then out of nowhere, it hit me what the visitor may have been seeking.

“We need to go to my house,” I said.

“That’s our next stop, in fact,” she said.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into my driveway. As with my sister’s place, crime scene tape seemed chaotically strewn around and across the property. And I noticed that the deadbolt on my front door had been replaced with a new one. Fortunately, Sanders produced a shiny new key that opened it.

“Someone needs to give one of those to me,” I said.

“Technically, it’s still a crime scene, so you’re not supposed to be coming and going,” she stipulated. “In fact, don’t take anything without asking me, either.”

I grumbled as I followed her into
my
home. It was then that I appreciated how thoroughly the “rifling” had been. Furniture had been upturned everywhere, and a litany of personal belongings were haphazardly strewn about. I also noticed a bloody area on my living room carpet where Agent Burroughs had fallen.

Sanders’ attention likewise seemed momentarily fixed upon that spot, as well.

“Do you immediately notice anything missing?” she asked, pulling open the drapes to allow natural light in.

I heaved a sigh as I surveyed many broken personal effects lying about. I entered my spare bedroom that I had turned into my hobby room. As I had expected, most of my meticulously-built models had been broken as they were cast aside. During the painstaking months of illness and treatments, particularly once I’d become physically debilitated, I’d resorted to building models to pass the time. Each model had served as my own therapeutic form of Bonsai tree, in fact.

Sanders appeared behind me in the doorway and reached down to pick up a model of NASA’s Apollo 13 Lunar Lander.

“My brother, Tom, used to put models together,” she absently noted. “Like you, he was pretty good at it. Good representation of moon dirt marks on the pads.”

I sifted through the near-debris that scattered the floor, and finally looked underneath a small shelf that had been tipped over against an open filing cabinet. I picked up the small wooden model of a 688 Attack Submarine and unscrewed the nosepiece. Inside was a handkerchief that had been rolled up around a USB memory drive.

Well, I’ll be damned. The guy might just have left empty-handed, after all.

Sanders noticed the device in my hand. “A memory stick? Something important?” she asked.

For a moment, I half-considered lying, and telling her that it was just backups of my financial data or family photos. But somehow, I felt that if anybody could help me get to the bottom of what had been going on, it was likely Sanders. And to do that, she needed to know as much as I did.

At least, for the most part.

For some reason, there was something about her that seemed…trustworthy.

I looked her squarely in the eyes and she must’ve gauged what I’d been thinking.

“You can trust me, Logan,” she assured me in what sounded like a sincere tone of voice.

The point wasn’t lost on me that she’d at least used my first name.

She was either very sincere or very accomplished at subterfuge.

“The question is, do you trust me?” I asked.

“You mustn’t be too evil of a guy. After all, you did save my life last night,” she said. “And if I hadn’t mentioned it yet, I really appreciate that. So does my family.”

I felt a smile touch my lips.

“I was given this by someone who wanted me to know about the true nature of my treatments at the Nuclegene Cancer Center,” I explained. “It contains clinical files that might help explain why I had the ability to stop those bullets in midair.”

Sanders’ eyebrows arched with curiosity.

“I’ve been toying with the idea that Nuclegene had more to do with everything that’s happened,” she said.

“So, you don’t think that I’m a terrorist, then?” I asked.

“Well, I never said that. However, if you are, you don’t seem like such a bad terrorist so far,” she said in a mock-conspiratorial tone.

I winked back at her.

Then something about the memory drive caused something even darker to occur to me, and I immediately reached for my cell phone.

“Dammit!”

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Whoever shot at us was probably looking for something like this,” I hastily explained. “And I think I know who might be next on his list.”

I cursed myself for not having thought of it last night.

“Hello?” answered a man’s worried voice.

“Hello? Can I speak to Maria? It’s urgent,” I insisted.

“Who is this? If you’ve got anything to do with her disappearance, so help me—” the man threatened.

The sinking feeling in my stomach seemed bottomless. Someone had already gotten to her.

“Listen, my name is Logan Bringer and I’m a friend of Maria’s. I’m here with the FBI. We’re on our way over,” I insisted.

Sanders’ expression turned icy as I hung up the phone.

“Who was that, and what in the
hell
are you talking about?” she demanded.

“I’ll explain everything, but you’ve got to trust me when I say that someone very innocent needs our help right now. I think that she may have been abducted…or worse.”

God, I hope Maria’s still alive.

“Damnation, Bringer, if one more spontaneous event crops up—”

Sanders reached over to snatch the USB drive from my hand, and dialed her cell phone.

“This is Sanders. I need some agents to assist with a possible abduction at—,” she ordered before stopping to glare at me. “Bringer, just where in the hell are we going?”

Despite my worry for Maria’s welfare, I still could’ve kissed Sanders squarely on the lips at that moment.

Chapter 8

By the time we arrived at Maria’s house, there were already local police cars and a sedan matching ours parked in front. Curious neighbors had started to gather as Sanders led the way past a patrol officer on the front porch.

Inside, I saw Maria’s son and daughter nervously perched on the edge of the couch next to a man who I’d likely spoken on the phone to. At least, his voice seemed to match.

“…time that I arrived, the kids told me that they heard the doorbell ring as they were waking up. When they got up to look, they couldn’t find their mother, so they immediately called me,” the man recollected to a police sergeant and one of the FBI agents who I recognized from Sanders’ office.

The guy noticed us enter and he stared at me.

“I’m Logan Bringer,” I offered.

Then he pointed at me. “That’s the guy that I told you about a few minutes ago.”

I listened to Sanders and the other agent, but my attention kept being distracted by the sight of Maria’s two children. No doubt, they wondered where their mother had gone so abruptly. I felt my frustration rise as the powerlessness of the situation registered on me. Worse yet, I had absolutely no idea where to start looking for her.

This just keeps getting worse and worse.

After nearly an hour of listening to questions and answers, I wandered into the kitchen just out of curiosity. I recalled that Maria had kept a shipment of my treatment formula in her refrigerator following the explosion at the Wallace Building. I opened the fridge, but instead of formula, I saw two pre-filled syringes in her cheese crisper and a small bottle of clear solution labeled, “LB Vitamins.”

I heard the questions and answers still going on in the living room, so I slipped them into the interior pocket of my leather jacket.