Holland pulled up to the address slowly and parked at the curb. Her brain was reeling in confusion. Whom should she trust? A so-called miraculously resurrected former special agent of the FBI who was and is part of a unique experiment with cell transplantation, or the head of her division? There was a principle of propaganda she recalled that said the bigger the lie, the better chance of it being accepted. What could be bigger than the fantastic story Wyatt, or whoever he really was, had told?
He had been brain dead and then through a transplant of brain cells similar to the work being done with stem cells, his brain had been brought back to life. The memory confusions were controlled with medication but the process had restored a very successful and talented agent to the bureau.
Or…he was a double agent planted by this renegade division of the CIA Landry Connors had described, with the purpose of destroying the Division of Jurors.
She stared at the house, a small Spanish-style hacienda with a patch of lawn and high wood fencing on both sides as well as the rear. There was nothing unusual about it. It was located in a lower-middle-class neighborhood and so ordinary for this area of Los Angeles it would, she realized, serve well as a safe house. Wyatt could very well have been fed this address so that he would take her here and they would have captured him anyway. That, at least, explained a possible reason why he had been given the address.
It made the most sense, she thought. After all, Wyatt had lied about his escape from internal affairs. Why would he lie at all to her? She didn’t buy that excuse he gave. Her people were inside that house. There was no reason to be hesitant. Those little instinctive alarms were not making any sense now. Ironically, she would have to agree with Wyatt about it.
Just as she opened her car door to step out, her cell phone rang. It was her father.
‘Dad! Are you all right?’
‘I am now. What about you?’
‘I think so,’ she said. ‘What do you mean by “I am now,” Dad?’
He described what had happened, diminishing how close he had come to dying and eliminating much of the gruesome detail.
‘I imagine you’re the one responsible for sending in the cavalry,’ he added.
‘Yes.’
‘Good instincts, Holland. I’m proud of you,’ he said. She could hear the sincerity and it brought tears to her eyes. ‘Can you tell me where you are now?’
‘I’m in Los Angeles, hoping to wrap this up. Right now, it looks clear that my partner wasn’t what he was supposed to be.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I disarmed him and left him on the street. Someone will be by to pick him up, I imagine. Connors knows. In fact, I’m about to meet with him. I’m just heading into the safe house.’
‘Good. I have one possible lead on this.’
‘You’ve done way too much already, Dad. I’m so sorry I even brought you in on this, but…’
‘No, you were thinking clearly, Holland. This doesn’t involve any danger.’
‘OK, what is it?’
‘I have this scumbag’s cell phone and he revealed his contact was on it, not by name, but by a nickname he had given him…the Voice. I didn’t believe him when he told me, of course, but I checked it on the phone. There is a number for the Voice. My guess is that the Voice is your new ex-partner. You didn’t take his cell phone, too, by any chance, did you?’
‘Yes, I did. He had an address on it that he was given and I took it when he was trying to convince me he had been given false information from the bureau.’
‘OK. What’s the time there? Never mind. I got it. OK, synchronize your watch…Five-oh-three your time, eight-oh-three mine. Got it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re going to see Connors now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great. I’ll call this number at exactly five twenty-three your time. If that phone rings, you can tell Connors what you have.’
‘That’s smart, Dad. You must have been a detective or something.’
‘Something,’ he said. ‘Watch yourself.’
‘You do the same.’
‘Five twenty-three,’ he repeated and hung up.
She put Wyatt’s phone in her purse and got out of the car. As she walked up the short sidewalk to the house, she looked back at the corner of the street. Call it instinct, call it that female sixth sense, but she felt pursued yet. Maybe she shouldn’t have just dumped Wyatt on the street. He knew this address. If Landry didn’t get some agents on him quickly, he might very well follow her here. Right now, she didn’t see any sign of him.
Just as she reached the front door, Landry Connors opened it, smiled and stepped back.
‘Come on in, Holland.’
‘I just heard from my father,’ she began.
‘Yes, that was a close call, a very close call. Good thinking on your part.’
‘What do you mean a very close call?’ she asked, as he closed the door.
The so-called safe house was as unremarkable inside as it was outside. In fact, she was surprised at how worn the entryway rug was: some parts of it had disintegrated so much she could see the wood floor beneath. To the right was a very small living room with furniture that looked like it had been plucked out of a thrift shop. There was no rug on the floor there and just some very ordinary-looking standing lamps.
She could see the kitchen was quite small, too. It was straight ahead. To the left of her was a bathroom and down from that were what she imagined to be at least two bedrooms. She had been expecting to see some equipment and communication devices, and she realized now that the house had no satellite dishes on the roof. She also realized there were no other agents in the house.
‘Apparently,’ Landry continued, ‘this hit man after your father was seconds, if that much, away from killing him when our guys arrived on the scene and took him out. Didn’t your father tell you?’
‘No,’ she said angrily. ‘You’d think he would have stopped being a protective parent years ago.’
‘Hey, a parent never stops that,’ Landry said. ‘Fortunately, it’s all good. We were tracking your car, by the way, and I think we’re moments away from capturing Wyatt. C’mon in and have something cold to drink. I’ve got the fridge stocked. You want a beer, white wine, soda, juice?’
‘Just a bottled water,’ she said.
‘Good. Go on and relax. I’ll bring it into the living room,’ he said, ‘and you can catch me up on what went on.’
She started in and called back. ‘How quickly will we have Wyatt? I’m sorry now I let him out on the street.’
‘Minutes away. Don’t worry. You did right,’ he replied. ‘I sent two of our guys back there to pick him up.’
‘I have something to tell you, something my father has organized,’ she called back, and sat. ‘He got hold of this hit man’s cell phone.’
Landry didn’t respond.
‘Did you hear me?’
She reached into her purse and plucked out Wyatt’s phone, placing it on the scratched and nicked light wood oval table between the two well-worn sofas. Threads dangled out of the bottoms of each and there were coffee or other stains on both.
‘This is quite a dump,’ she remarked. ‘I suppose it makes for a good, discreet location.’
She took a deep breath, thinking about all she had just done in one day—escaped from internal affairs, hijacked an FBI plane, dumped a double agent, and saved her father’s life.
‘And what did you do today?’ she asked an imaginary person across from her.
She was about to laugh at herself when Landry Connors came into the room with his hands up.
Wyatt was right behind him, holding Landry’s pistol to the back of his head.
‘Just relax, Holland,’ Wyatt said, ‘and everyone will be all right. Sit,’ he told Landry. ‘Holland, I’d be a lot more comfortable if you would be so kind as to take out your pistol and put it on that table in front of you very, very slowly. Do it!’ he snapped, when she hesitated.
‘You’re making a big mistake, Wyatt,’ Landry said. ‘This place will be surrounded any moment. There’s no escape. Just give it up. No sense dying over it.’
‘There is if it is your innocence,’ Wyatt replied. ‘First, you don’t have to pretend anymore, Landry. No reason to keep calling me Wyatt. I never liked that joke anyway. Tell her my name,’ he said, pointing the pistol at Holland. ‘Go on.’
‘Why don’t you?’ Landry replied.
‘He knows me as Steven Stamford, the name you heard at the private airstrip, don’t you, Landry? You always did. Go on, tell her.’
‘What does that prove?’
‘It proves you knew about the project, my so-called resurrection. Did he tell you anything otherwise, Holland?’
She looked at Landry.
‘I never believed any of it,’ he explained. ‘I knew he was coming in from a division of the CIA. The rest was some science fiction I was told to justify his reinstatement.’
‘How else could a brain-dead man return to service, Landry?’
‘Maybe you weren’t really brain dead. How the hell do I know?’
Steven Stamford smiled. ‘He’s not completely wrong, Holland. I was planted in the bureau, but not for the reason he gave you, whatever that was. It’s actually Mr Connors here who is orchestrating the demise of the Federal Division of Jurors. He and his…what should we call them, Landry…friends, cohorts, fellow conspirators.’
‘You’re crazy. Maybe you were brain dead.’
‘What were you supposed to be getting for this? Must be quite a sum. Think of all the money that lawyers have lost since the professional jury system was established, Holland. An entire industry went under…the jury selection process, with its evaluators figuring out how to fix juries in the defense attorney’s or civil attorney’s favor.
‘Legal fees took a serious blow, since a lawyer’s time—or padding of bills—was significantly reduced. Two-week trials dropped to two days, all that preparing of character witnesses, etc. was eliminated. Do you realize that since the establishment of the Division of Jurors, the enrollment of students in law school has gone down by nearly 50 per cent? There’s now almost a reasonable proportion of lawyers to the population.’
‘He’s telling you why he’s been hired to do what he did,’ Landry said.
‘On the contrary, Holland, I was hired to stop what he was doing.’
‘After the lies you know he told you, why would you even listen to this crap?’ Landry asked her.
She eyed her pistol.
‘Easy Holland,’ Wyatt said. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this. I have a car outside that I confiscated seconds after you dropped me off so unceremoniously. The three of us are going to walk out slowly and get into the car. Holland, you’ll drive.’
‘Why would he take us out of here, Holland?’ Landry asked.
‘So your henchmen won’t interrupt,’ Wyatt said.
Landry smiled. ‘OK, Stamford, we’ll play along. Let’s go out to your car,’ he said, rising. ‘Holland, do not be concerned. As a friend of yours and mine, Spencer Arthur, once said, have faith in your own vision.’
Holland looked at Wyatt.
Spencer Arthur, her weapons instructor—as creepy as they come—but apparently he was out there waiting, a crack shot. He was Landry’s backup. She smiled to herself. He was good; he was always perfectly prepared for any contingency.
She nodded and rose.
Wyatt stepped back for them to pass. He would be dead in less than a minute, she thought and started after Landry. As he reached for the front doorknob, she heard the sound of a phone ringing and looked at her watch.
Only…
It was Landry Connors’ phone.
It hit her as hard and sharply as a bullet might.
‘Give me that phone!’ she demanded.
Landry turned. ‘Forget it. This is no time to worry about phone calls,’ he said. ‘No time,’ he whispered.
She turned to Wyatt.
‘Give her the phone,’ he said, ‘or we’ll end it here.’
Landry looked at the door, shrugged and handed Holland his phone.
She flipped it open. ‘Dad?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘My God,’ she said. She turned to Wyatt. ‘You’re telling the truth.’
Landry Connors seized the doorknob, pulled it open and dropped to the floor.
Holland screamed and pushed Wyatt back just before the bullets ripped the floor and walls. Landry crawled out the door. Wyatt leaned over, spun on his shoulder and came up on the other side of the hallway.
The bullets continued to riddle the hallway. Holland went to the window and screamed.
‘Spencer, hold off.’
She could see him behind an automobile across the street. He turned slowly and put her in his sights.
Wyatt Ert, the mythical agent, got off his one shot, lifting the top of Spencer Arthur’s head like a machete might, and he disappeared behind the car.
All was quiet.
‘Get up,’ Wyatt told Landry. He did so slowly. ‘Back up.’
As soon as Landry was inside, Wyatt closed the door.
‘Something tells me we’re better off waiting for my guys,’ he told Holland.
She looked at him and nodded. There was no smoke, really, but it was truly as if she had to wait for it to clear as she caught her breath and waited for her heart to stop pounding a hole in her chest.
‘So what do I call you now?’ she asked when she could speak.
He smiled. ‘Anything you want. Just don’t call me Late for Dinner.’
How she was able to laugh, she will never know.
But she finally concluded that he did have a sense of humor, after all.