Seth glared at him – his narrow lips pressed tightly together, squeezing the color out of them. The jaw muscles visible under his sharply angled cheekbones flexed as he clenched his teeth. He stepped toward Jerry who backed up. He hadn’t wanted to do it. He had done it for the mission – for Sarah. Bert knew too much, plain and simple, and he had to make a decision – kill him, or live nervously because he had left a major liability walking around.
“No. I just felt like killing somebody today,” Seth said. “Of course I had to do it.” He placed his hand on Bert’s chest, and ripped open his shirt. “Besides, he’s not dead. He’s wearing a bullet-proof vest.”
Jerry and Curtis leaned over and took a closer look. Sure enough, his chest moved up and down as he breathed.
Seth smiled and said, “Let’s get him into the lab before he comes to. This’ll work out perfect.”
He was very pleased with this bit of luck. Now, even if Bert’s body managed to survive the upcoming blaze, it would be smoke and fire, not a bullet, that would be the cause of death. Maybe things were finally starting to go their way.
As the three men dragged his huge, limp body into the lab, Bert slowly regained consciousness
“You could use me, Seth,” Bert pleaded. “I can help you.”
Seth leaned down close to his ear and said, “I’m sure you could, but this is all happening because I trusted one too many people. I’m sorry that it turned out like this; I really am. I actually liked you.”
Seth walked over to Jerry and handed him the rifle. “Keep an eye on him. We can’t afford to have anything else happen.”
“How did Sarah take the news about Foster?” Jerry asked.
“Not good,” he shouted over his shoulder.
As Seth walked toward Curtis and Wendel, who had finished with the large ticket items, Curtis cried out. “Jesus Christ, Wendel. Be careful with that thing.”
Seth broke into a trot and got to the two men just in time to see Wendel picking up the radio detonator that would set off the incendiaries from the ground.
“It was an accident,” Wendel said. “It slipped out of my hands.”
Seth snatched the device from him and said, “Give me that before you incinerate all of us, you idiot.”
He never hid his dislike of Wendel. If it were up to him, they would have lost this guy a long time ago, but Sarah liked him. She said that they needed grunts as well as geniuses.
“Will you guys get back to work?” Seth said. “Anybody heard from Mark? He should have been here hours ago.”
Seth placed the transmitter on the hood of the pickup. Incompetent fuckups aside, things were moving nicely, way ahead of schedule. He jogged back to the lab with Curtis and Wendel following close behind. The sun would be rising in another couple hours to what was supposed to be a beautiful day – their last in Maine. He noticed Bert studying them from his position on the floor. He would be scheming a way to get out of this predicament but with Jerry’s rifle pointed at his head, wasn’t going anywhere.
Seth walked into the lab. The room looked like a hurricane had passed through. “I don’t believe it,” Seth said as he walked around. “We’re ready to get out of here,” he glanced at his watch. “Ten hours early.”
“Great job,” he said as he went down his checklist, confirming that everything that was supposed to go had been packed into the truck.
“You’re never going to get away with it,” Bert said from the floor.
Seth ignored the comment for a minute until he finally looked over the top of his papers and said, “You’ll never know.”
Bert’s eyes narrowed and he involuntarily moved toward Seth.
“Don’t even think about it,” Jerry said as he pulled back the hammer on the rifle. All of them stared at Bert.
The lights went out. Darkness from outside poured into the room like water through a dam breach.
2:36 am FBI Field Office, Bangor, Maine
The voice kept repeating. ‘Agent Pelletier, are you there, Agent Pelletier?’ Chris rolled over and fell off the couch onto the dirty carpet. Lying on the floor in a semi-stupor, he realized that the voice came from the communicator on the conference room table.
He stood up groggily and looked for Pell.
“Agent Pelletier,” the voice said again.
“He stepped out for a minute,” Chris said. His voice cracked as he spoke.
“Who’s this?”
“I’m helping Pell, let me go get him for you.”
He walked out into the dark office space stopping in the middle of the lobby, overcome by fear. Maybe he wasn’t alone? Where was Pell? He crept down to Pell’s office – empty. He started a room-to-room search, calling Pell’s name softly. The hairs on his arms stood straight up. Finally, he came to the bathroom. A slit of light seeped out from under the door.
He tapped on the door. “Pell?”
No answer. He rapped harder and called his name louder. Still nothing. Slowly he pushed on the door. It started to open but then stopped. He stuck his head inside the opening and saw Pell on the floor amidst several empty bottles.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He stepped back and rammed his body into the door, shoving Pell into the corner. He kneeled over and turned Pell’s face so that he looked directly at him.
“Pell,” Chris said. No response. He slapped his face a few times and repeated his name. Nothing. The double vodkas and whatever he had slammed down out of these other bottles had knocked him out cold. He turned on the cold water, cupped both hands under the frigid stream, letting the water overflow them and then splashed it onto Pell’s face.
This woke him up instantly. He wiped furiously at his face, as if Chris had spilled acid on him.
“What the hell are you doing, Chris?”
“That’s what I was going to say to you,” Chris replied angrily, looking down at the empty bottles. He kicked one across the tiles and it slammed into the wall.
Pell looked up at him and then down at the spinning empty bottle that was coming to rest next him. Chris said, “Are you an alcoholic?”
“Who the fuck do you…” Pell’s mouth froze on the next word. He looked longingly at Chris for a moment – his eyes pleading and watery. Then hung his head between his knees and ran his fingers through his already disheveled hair.
“Are, you, an, alcoholic,” Chris said again.
Pell let out a low, slow sigh and said, “I am.”
“Great. Fucking great,” Chris said. “We’ve got people out there trying to kill me and wanting to alter the natural order of the world, and I’m relying on a drunk, resentful, oh-poor-me-I’ve-had-a-tough-time-of-it-and-been-treated-unfairly FBI agent who can’t take it. Go ahead, Pell. Crawl back into your beloved bottle. That will solve everything like it always does, right? People like you make me sick.”
He stormed out of the tiny bathroom and back to the conference room with Pell in hot pursuit.
As he was about to enter the room, Pell caught up and spun him around. His expression was intense, fiery – the weak, pleading expression remained back on the bathroom floor. This wasn’t the look of a drunken man.
“You don’t understand, Chris,” he said. “When I poured those bottles into the toilet last night, I admitted to myself for the first time that it was all my fault. I’m responsible for where I am today. Booze had a lot to do with it, but ultimately it was me – all me. I took my last drink at the Lo Maine last night with you.”
Chris huffed. He had a lot of personal experience with alcoholics, and knew how good at lying they become, but the look on Pell’s face was different – it was look of a man with determination and hope.