Thompson finished with the director around four thirty. At five, O’Brien came by her office with Chinese. The fingerprint results came in a little before six. It took another hour for Thompson to obtain clearance to view the file they pointed toward-and even then, the file was heavily redacted.
She’d been worried the prints would prove a dead end. That the glass shards Garfield’s fake witness pointed them toward were no more than a red herring tossed their way so Garfield would provide the guy an exit. But as soon as she saw the grainy file photo looking back at her from her computer screen, she realized they’d hit pay dirt. God knew what the sadistic bastard who’d pointed them this way was playing at, but he’d been right about the prints, at least.
The photo was of a lean, fresh-faced kid-cheery, she could tell, but trying his best to look stern for the camera- whose features would soon sharpen into the man she’d seen kill Leonwood at Pendleton’s. His name was Michael Evan Hendricks, according to the file. A foster kid-no family listed-who found his way to Special Forces. The fields for group and battalion featured black bars where text should be-and the file was so slight, it was clear it couldn’t contain two tours’ worth of mission information.
That, to Thompson, suggested the government didn’t want those missions known.
That, to Thompson, suggested black ops.
And that wasn’t even the most interesting aspect of Hendricks’s file. The most interesting aspect was the fact that-according to the government, at least-Hendricks was dead, the victim of a roadside bomb outside Kandahar. Wiped out his whole damn unit, save one. She’d done some digging and discovered-in a document so whitewashed it was clear the bulk of it was bogus, a casualty report sanitized to feed to the press-that the sole living member of his unit was a man named Lester Meyers.
The document contained only names, so she had no social security number, nor any idea where this Meyers was from-and DOD was stonewalling her at every turn.
A quick search indicated there were a few dozen Lester Meyerses the country over. She had agents sifting through the information now, trying to determine which was theirs. Maybe this Meyers was still in contact with his undead brother-in-arms. Maybe he wasn’t. But either way, he might be able to provide them with some kind of lead on where Hendricks might be.
She was dying to share all of this with her partner, but Garfield hadn’t ever returned, and he wasn’t answering her texts. Her concern for him had blossomed into something more immediate, unignorable. Finally, she broke down and called him. After six rings, his voice mail kicked in.
“Garfield,” she said, “where the hell are you? Call me as soon as you get this. Those prints came back. We’ve got an ID on my ghost.”
Garfield woke slowly to darkness. The only light in the apartment was that of the streetlights through the blinds. His head was pounding. His skin crawled. His mouth felt like it was packed with cotton.
For a moment, he just lay there, taking stock. He knew that he’d fucked up big-time today. That he’d fallen off the wagon hard. That he might’ve just torpedoed his career. He knew he needed to clean up, fly right, and take his lumps if he wanted to come out the other end okay, but he couldn’t quiet the voice in his head that told him another bump of coke would make everything all better.
He glanced at the woman who lay beside him, facedown and tangled in the sheets. On the small of her back, she had a tattoo of a cross-once black, but now faded to fuzzy blue.
Judge not that ye be judged, Garfield thought.
She’d set the bullet snorter on his nightstand. He reached over her toward it-trying not to wake her-but it was just beyond his grasp. As he strained to reach it, he slipped, and put his hand down on the edge of the mattress in front of her to catch himself. The whole bed rocked, but she didn’t stir.
And when he lifted his hand back off the bed, it was bloody.
Garfield rolled the woman over. Her throat was slit. Her eyes were open and glazed over. Blood soaked her side of the bed and dripped onto the floor beneath.
He leapt out of bed and scanned the floor for his holster, his gun. That’s when he saw the man pointing a Ruger at him from the armchair in the corner.
The man’s face was swollen and bruised. His right eye was rimmed with lacerations. Beside the chair were Garfield’s shoulder holster and cell phone, as well as one of Garfield’s kitchen knives-the latter streaked with gore.
“Hello, Special Agent Garfield,” the man said, smiling. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
35
Headlights drifted toward the shoulder in the darkness. The car’s front-left tire hit the rumble strip, and Hendricks jerked awake-fishtailing as he swerved back into his lane. Once he got the car back on the road, he rolled the window down, hoping the air would keep him alert.
He’d tossed and turned all night in the musty boat cabin. His injuries had nagged at him. The cuts on his hand and neck itched maddeningly. His bruises were hot and tender to the touch. His shoulder clicked when he moved it wrong, and felt like it was full of rusty nails. At dawn, Hendricks found the boat’s first aid kit and chewed four aspirin as he cleaned his wounds.
Hendricks had waited until he heard both cars in the driveway leave before he climbed out of his hiding place and retrieved his phone. Then he walked barefoot toward Peoria proper, his too-small stolen loafers in one hand.
In a Goodwill parking lot, Hendricks had jimmied open a donation box and started dumping bags at random. After a little digging, he’d grabbed a plain black T-shirt, a pair of Levi’s, a hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of paint-spattered black Chuck Taylors. He felt a little guilty stealing from a charity, but as bedraggled as he looked, walking into a store would’ve drawn too much unwanted attention-and anyway, he was a little short on cash. The way Hendricks saw it, a fugitive from justice twelve hundred miles from home with less than seven hundred dollars to his name was entitled to a little charity.
He’d cleaned up in a nearby Hardee’s restroom and put on his new clothes, burying his old ones beneath a layer of paper towels in the trash bin.
Not far from the Hardee’s was a Best Western. Hendricks strode into the lobby like he belonged there. The bored young woman playing a game on her cell phone behind the front desk didn’t even look his way. He helped himself to their continental breakfast, and then he pulled up Craigslist on the computer in their business center.
Three hours and a bunch of phone calls later, he was the proud owner of a ’93 Civic. The tires were bald, the backseat was all chewed up, and the cabin smelled like dog, but at three hundred bucks, the price was right- and deals for two other cars had fallen through already, so he couldn’t afford to be too picky. Hendricks offered the owner another hundred to bring the car to his hotel. Once he dropped the guy back at his house, Hendricks was on his way.
Stolen wheels are fine for short-term transportation, but when you’ve got twenty hours of driving ahead of you, it’s nice to know the cops aren’t looking for your ride.
Now, the lights of Cleveland beckoned to him in the distance. Hendricks figured he could find some food there, some Advil, and maybe even a shower and a proper bed- provided he could find a motel shady enough to accept cash no-questions-asked. He knew Cleveland well enough to assume that wouldn’t be a problem.
Hendricks turned on the radio, scanned the dial until he found a classic rock station playing the Stones. Cranked the volume and drummed along on the steering wheel.