Chapter Two

~ Sunday Morning ~

 

James woke up Sunday morning in his own bed to the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen, mixed with the heavenly-bakery scent of cinnamon buns. In his morning haze, he could’ve sworn the whole thing was just a bad, bad dream. He almost convinced himself it was, but his head ached and he had the unmistakable earthy taste of metal from the dried blood on his lip, now healing. It all came back to him—he had the wounds on his face and the tender concern of Bridget to prove it was all too real.

Bridget called off from work and nursed him throughout the day. She bandaged, cleansed his wounds, iced his lip and swollen face, kissed, and massaged every part that hurt, even parts that didn’t. She charged his cell phone and deleted twenty–two messages she had left him during the frantic search. She felt guilty deleting them, but didn’t want him to think she was too needy or something.

By Sunday afternoon, he was feeling much better and with the new butterfly band-aids in place, he didn’t look too bad. He could definitely go to work and that was exactly what he was going to do. His headache diminished as the day went on and he was able to think clearly.

When he finally had the strength to leave the bedroom, he found Bridget outside drinking a local brew from Georgetown Brewing Company. James grabbed one from the fridge and joined her. The beer went down smoothly as he mentally ran through his options.

He had the hair and it would certainly come in handy in the near future. He wasn’t sure how useful it would be but felt that it would prove valuable. He couldn’t call the police. Wright’s team was able to file a report that convinced the police investigators Bridget talked to that an accident did happen when it didn’t. He couldn’t trust anyone at the bank; the albino was obviously in OTS or some other agency. He was almost certain the apartment was bugged, as well as the phone and the internet connection.

He surmised that he didn’t know how far the rabbit hole went, but it was safest to assume it went deep. After all, billions of dollars were at stake.

He could only trust people who were not government related. What about his college roommate? Would they think to bug him? Would they be following him? How could he get in touch without being traced? He could go to a local internet café—was that an option? Would that work? The questions raced through his mind, but the answers were nowhere to be found.

James leaned in close to Bridget, close enough to whisper, “Can internet cafés be traced? You know, can the government tap into your internet communications?”

Bridget contemplated the question, allowing the cold beer to swirl in her mouth. She pulled the bottle from her mouth and it made a plunk sound. James motioned to her with a single finger across his lips, shush.

Bridget was puzzled by his secrecy, but whispered back, “Yes, I think so, they would have to know the internet provider and could probably see what you’re doing, but I think they would need a warrant. Why? Why are we whispering?”

James made a quick decision. He had to tell her a little bit of what was going on, but not enough to put her at risk. He would never tell her of the bank stealing part, but he needed her to know they were being watched.

He just said it, “We’re being watched.”

“Watched, what do you mean, like spying? Are you in trouble James?”

James decided to lie. “More like being investigated. You know, because of the accident.”

She didn’t know and stood in an instant of anger and distrust. She was hot now, her bull-shit meter pegged off the graph, and exclaimed in a normal voice, (which was much louder than the whisper James was hoping for) “What the hell is going on?”

He grabbed her sleeve and with his best puppy-dog look, silently begged her to sit down, to hear him out.

She reluctantly agreed, giving him a fierce once over while she took her seat and jerked her sleeve out of his hand.

Skepticism filled the distance between them and James could feel its coldness roll across his skin like a cold front from British Columbia. The beer bottle was quickly at her lips again, as she took a big gulp, trying to swallow her anger. “They don’t investigate car accidents, James, at least not to the point where they spy on you. What is going on?”

He paused momentarily, and then lied through his teeth, hating himself before he even spoke. “There was a little green in the car. The cops found it and now I’m under suspicion. Mr. Wright, the one that called when you picked me up at the hotel, he’s an employee investigator, and I’ve heard stories about how they take the smallest investigation to unheard of levels. OTS and bank security are ruthless.”

Bridget wasn’t sure she believed it. It did ring of truth, and she was sure there were employee investigators—after all, it was a government agency.

They were back to whispering.

“So why the questions about the internet café? What does that have to do with this?”

“I have friends I’d like to contact without even the remote possibility of these investigators knowing. Friends that may be able to help me keep my job.”

She nodded. She knew James loved his job. “Okay, then you’ll need a pre-paid cell phone. It doesn’t require a contract or a credit card and they would never know which one you purchased.”

“Yes, but I’m thinking of another route.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you to steal a phone from one of your co–wor—”

She was shaking her head before he even finished. “No, I will not steal from a co-worker, James. Are you crazy?”

“Okay, maybe steal was the wrong word. I want you to borrow a phone—you can even leave a note saying you’ll bring it right back. I only need it for an hour or so.”

“Why not just buy one?”

“Baby, it has to be secret. They can’t know and it would look suspicious if I suddenly bought one. It’s not like I can walk into a Best Buy and ask for the secret sales register.”

“I don’t know, James. I guess I could borrow Cindy’s, she never uses it at work, and she’s pretty laid back, so she won’t make a big fuss.”

James stood, gulped down the remaining beer, and grabbed her hand. He planted a thankful kiss on her cheek and whispered, “Follow my lead.” She just stared at him and finished her beer.

As he entered the living room, he said aloud, “Do I have to go? Can’t you go by yourself to get the schedule?”

Bridget quickly caught on, “Yes, James, you have to go. I’m not leaving you here, so you’re going with me or I’ll get fired.”

She grabbed the car keys and impatiently held the door open as James took his sweet time, his back still aching from being hogtied, and the beating didn’t help either. As he passed through the door, he whispered, “Beauty and brains.” She smiled and patted him on the butt.

* * * *

Mr. Wright’s team saw, heard, and recorded everything.

They saw James fold up the note and place it into his wallet. They watched Bridget’s arms flail about in the car and heard every single word as she told James of all her attempts to find him as she drove them to the condominium.

Mr. Wright got a great deal of professional pleasure in listening to her tale—and to think he had set this all up, starting with the murder of Karl Brownstone four months earlier. Every detail meticulously calculated and planned out. The best surveillance equipment black-market money could buy. It was his decision to choose Mr. Spain as the mark, his choice of professional associates. This was his team, his plan, and it was working perfectly.

He heard all the tender caresses in the apartment as Ms. Davies nursed James back to health (lucky bastard, well, lucky to have her anyway—not so lucky he was chosen for this job). Mr. Wright’s wife could no longer provide the type of intimate power a good woman could give a man. Ms. Davies’ attentive nature made Wright glad he was a man and jealous he wasn’t her man. Sure she was too young, but what better way to spend one’s imagination.

He watched James wake up on Sunday morning and heard the normal conversations of concern as she cleansed and bandaged his wounds. He heard them over breakfast and coffee. He heard every phone call of co-workers checking in to make sure he was okay.

He watched in real-time every webpage Bridget visited as she searched WebMD and other sites for the best way to care for James’s wounds. All of it, every conversation, every camera view, and every single action on any webpage were being recorded on an iron-clad network of servers just blocks down the street. Everything was indexed and searchable down to the room they were in and when they were in it. Yet even with all this technology, he missed a great deal of conversation as the couple sat on the balcony.

“Is the balcony bugged?” he screamed at the surveillance technician.

“Yes, it’s bugged. We have our best high-fidelity wireless devices in all the living quarters. We can hear and see everything.”

“Really? We can hear everything? Is that what you said? All I can hear is a bunch of shushes and whispering, sounds like a fucking funeral in there. Followed by her screaming, ‘What the hell is going on?’ I ask the same question to you.”

“It’s ... the mic is in the light—above—she stood and that’s why it was so loud,” stammered the technician.

This was followed by more whispering and the technician, as much as he wanted to, couldn’t get a clear voice path, the voices were too low and mixed in with the ambient noise of vehicle and city noise on the street.

Mr. Wright was losing his mind. Patience had deserted him long ago and he just sat writing a note as the whispering continued. He was fuming and tore up note after note, until he seemed pleased with the last one he wrote.

Finally, they could be heard again. They entered into the living room and apparently, a trip was in order to get a work schedule for the lovely Bridget, and Bridget, being the good girl she was, was not going to leave James behind. Mr. Wright stood. His hand made a circular motion in the air and three associates, not including the technician, jumped to their feet and began to mobilize. They were on the move.

Wright ripped the note from the notepad and handed it to the technician, it read:

“Get this fixed. If a cricket farts in that condo, or on that balcony, or in their car, I want to hear it, and you never know, I just may throw a gassed up cricket in there as a test.”

As Wright was leaving the room, the surveillance technician overheard him ask the associate holding the door open, “Do crickets eat beans?”

The associate replied, “Maybe bean leaves and stalks. Maybe cooked beans?”

Another associate replied, “I think crickets are carnivores.”

They were in the black Tahoe before James and Bridget made it to their car. The laptops were glowing and the planted GPS devices working.

“Target is a go, sir,” announced the associate in the back seat.

“Perfect,” Mr. Wright replied as he reached out and grabbed the drivers arm, “Now remember. We want him to know we’re here, but not to know we’re here. We’re the spooky ghosts, right? When we’re not here, I want him to think we are, I want him to feel our icy stares on the back of his neck, and when we are there, it should be obvious.”

The associate started the Tahoe, all of the passengers waiting for the engine to warm.

“And we’ve taken care of the car radio?” Wright asked.

“Yes, the radio will only play the pre–recorded songs, per your request.”

“And we have a warm body at her job?”

“Yes, he’s taking his seat now, has a clear view of the front door, and will track her once she enters. We have another ready to track Mr. Spain if he enters the restaurant.”

“Excellent. Let’s let them know we’re here.”

The driver pulled out of the parking lot and stopped on 8th Avenue, turned on its fog lights and rolled down the driver side window, allowing the remaining light of the day to silhouette the three men inside.

The associate in the back seat piped up, “We could cover larvae of some sort with bean paste, but are we even sure a cricket can fart? I mean, just thinking—it—it would have to be a very high pitched fart, you know, because its butthole is so small.”

The other associates laughed. One finally replied to the open-ended question, “You eat beans and you’re going to fart—it’s a natural biological law of some sort.”

Mr. Wright watched James and Bridget intently and smiled as he listened to the banter between his associates.