Ghosted

Chapter Twelve

Archie didn’t expect to sleep.

His brain roiled with questions, confusion.

Why come after him? How was he a threat to anyone? Anyone who was paying attention, that is. Was the fact that he was an FBI agent throwing someone into a panic?

What happened to his case now that Breland was dead? Was the question moot, given that he might not have a career, never mind a particular case, by the time he escaped Twinkleton?

Why had John made him the main beneficiary of his will? What had John been trying to tell him in the gazebo that night? But even more to the point, why in God’s name would anyone murder John?

What had he seen in John’s garden the night of the ghost walk?

Why try to frame him? Why not just kill him?

Why had Beau changed his mind about giving him access to John’s file? What had Beau planned to tell him before the discovery of the knife?

Would he have wanted to hear it?

How long before he was back to normal?

Was he going to make it back?

None of these thoughts were conducive to sleep.

He needed to be up and dealing with things, all of these things, but instead, here he was, losing valuable time flat on his back in a dark room, trying to convince himself the bed wasn’t actually spinning...

Astonishingly, in the midst of these tumultuous reflections, he passed out.

When he woke, it was one-thirty in the morning. The room felt warm and stuffy. The lamp next to his bed was shining; he was still fully clothed. He managed to sit up long enough to strip and turn off the lamp, before he tumbled back onto the mattress and into sleep.

The next time Archie opened his eyes, he was convinced it was Monday morning and he had dreamed the events of the previous day.

It was hard to hang onto that comforting illusion after he realized he was in a different room and, according to the old-fashioned clock on the table by the window, it was two o’clock.

Clearly not two a.m., which meant...

“ Shit .” He threw back the bedclothes and got up—cautiously—stumbling into the bathroom to splash water on his face. The cold water helped, and coffee would help, assuming this coffee maker worked.

The sleep had helped. A lot. He could think again. His normal confidence began to reassert itself. Yes, there was a hell of a lot to deal with, but if Beau was serious about temporarily withholding discovery of the knife, if he really would give Archie access to John’s case file…

If. If. If.

He was usually good at analysis. In fact, there had been many times over the past year he had sincerely wished he had become an intelligence analyst rather than a field agent. It wasn’t that he’d lost his nerve. But there was a price, it took something out of you, to work deep undercover the way he had for so many months. Befriending people with an eye to betraying them—he still did not question or regret that necessity—but it did cost you something.

Anyway, if he could just get his hands on all the pieces to this puzzle—because, however it seemed on the surface, it couldn’t be a very complicated crime. It came back to victimology. John’s character, his life, his relationships, his habits…all these things automatically limited the potential scope of the investigation. John was not involved in domestic terrorism; he was not involved in organized crime—or even disorganized crime. He did not gamble, he did not live beyond his means, he did not run insurance scams or commit medical malpractice. He did not have a messy personal life, although perhaps, through no fault of his own, it was a little messier than Archie had realized.

There was certainly a personal aspect to this crime.

Whoever had killed John was likely known to him. It was hard to imagine John going to meet a stranger at twilight in the back of the garden.

Granted, it was hard to understand why John had gone to meet anyone at twilight in the back of the garden.

When Archie was finally allowed to return to McCabe House, he would turn the place upside down looking for anything that could give him insight into who might have wished John out of the way. Starting with John’s safe, where he would hopefully find that mysterious letter that was supposed to explain why John had deliberately cut his sister and niece from his will in favor of Archie. He was counting on that document revealing—maybe not the actual motive for someone wanting John out of the way—but at the very least, insight into John’s state of mind.

Had John been afraid of someone?

No.

He had not, in Archie’s opinion, seemed fearful. Surely, he would not have gone out to the gazebo if he’d been fearful.

But then, did Archie know John as well as he thought?

Did he know any of these people, including Beau, as well as he’d thought?

No. Of course not. No one ever knew anyone as well as they thought.

Archie brushed his teeth, showered, shaved. It was a relief to have a plan of action again, even if the plan was so far too dependent on Beau’s goodwill.

He was surprised he hadn’t heard from Beau yet, but when he double-checked his cell, Beau had not phoned or texted.

Hopefully, Beau had not changed his mind about arresting him. Archie’s heart sank a little at the thought. Beau had sounded definite the night before, but he was almost certainly under pressure to solve the murder of a prominent citizen quickly.

So, coffee and food and then he would touch base with Beau.

In the midst of these thoughts, someone knocked firmly on his room door.

Scarlett making sure he hadn’t absconded in the night?

Or someone even less friendly?

Archie moved quietly to the door, gazed out through the peephole, and had a fish-eyed glimpse of a miniature Beau raising his hand to knock again.

Archie opened the door. “Speak of the devil.”

Beau considered Archie, towel wrapped around his waist, his hair in damp tufts from the shower. He held up a manila folder. “Room service.”

Archie felt a rush of relief—Beau had followed through on his promise—and stepped back.

Beau stepped inside the room. “Sleep well?” His gaze returned automatically to Archie’s bare chest.

Archie grimaced. “Yeah. Too well. How about you?”

“Nothing to report. I guess our perp will wait for the maid to make her discovery. I asked Scarlett to pull the security footage of the grounds for the past forty-eight hours. Maybe something will turn up.”

Maybe. Archie wasn’t pinning his hopes on it. Too often nighttime security footage was unusable.

“Let me get dressed.” Archie grabbed his briefs, jeans, and T-shirt and returned to the steamy bathroom. When he exited fully dressed a couple of minutes later, Beau was at the window staring down at the street below. His profile was grim.

“Everything okay?” Archie asked.

Beau’s gaze rested on him for a moment. “Sure.”

Archie spotted the folder lying on the table. Was Beau having second thoughts about giving him access to the case file? Better not to waste a minute of this opportunity. He pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. He flipped open the file—it felt light, in his opinion—and got a jolt as he gazed at the crime scene photo clipped to the first page of the report. He’d been present at the scene in real time, of course, but somehow viewing it like this was different. For one thing, the scene was well lit. All details visible. Though he’d seen a lot of crime scene photos in his time, he’d never seen one of someone he knew. Someone he cared about.

It took him a moment.

Beau’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“How many rounds?”

“What?”

Beau said crisply, “How many rounds did you take?”

It took Archie a second to understand the question, to realize Beau was once again staring at his chest, though his cotton tee now concealed the faded, but still ugly, bruising across his torso.

But yes, the marks from fists and feet typically had a more diffuse, irregular pattern, would maybe show signs of knuckle or shoe imprints. Bruises from bullets hitting a bulletproof vest were usually more localized and circular, corresponding to the shape of the bullet. Somewhere down the line Beau had learned to tell the difference between bruises made with fists and feet versus bullets. A reminder that even policing a small, quiet little village could be a dangerous occupation.

“Three rounds in the vest.”

“Where the hell was your backup?”

Archie understood the reason for the censure in Beau’s tone. But for an FBI agent working deep undercover for as long as he had, wearing a wire would be impossibly risky. He’d been with those asshole Nazi-wannabes 24/7. He’d eaten, slept, trained with them. They’d worked out together, gone swimming in rivers, taken outdoor showers. There was no wearing a wire. He’d had to rely on dead drops, heartbeats, encryption, and good old-fashioned memorization for communicating with the team.

“It wasn’t that kind of op. I couldn’t wear a wire. My backup is why I’m here today.”

Backup and the vest, of course. The True Sons of Alliance wore vests too. That outfit had been better armed, better equipped than a lot of small-town police departments.

But though a vest could stop a bullet from penetrating the body, the impact could still cause serious injuries. The force of the bullet could lead to broken ribs, internal bleeding, or damage to vital organs. A vest offered significant protection, but it didn’t guarantee survival in all situations. Had he been hit with the armor-piercing rounds Breland and Ronson carried, he’d have died out there, no question. Nor had the vest been able to protect his head from fists and feet, and those injuries had been the most critical.

As it was, it had been too close. He didn’t let himself think about how close.

Beau nodded, stared back out the window.

Archie began to skim the initial report.

Over his shoulder, Beau said, “The only persons of interest who weren’t at the ghost walk on Saturday were Professor Azizi and Jon Monig. For what it’s worth—and it might not be much.”

Archie nodded absently, turned the page. Now past the initial shock, he was able to study the color photos of the scene without emotion. He’d learned to compartmentalize; in their line of work, it was the only way to stay efficient and, equally important, sane.

He asked, “Have you been able to verify if Azizi really was out of town?”

Beau turned abruptly from the window and sat down at the table, across from Archie. “According to neighbors, Azizi drove off like a bat out of hell around eleven o’clock on Saturday night. He informed his department head at UO of a family emergency. He said he was planning to fly to Nebraska and would probably be gone most of the week.”

“Did he fly to Nebraska?”

“Doesn’t look like it. We haven’t been able to find any trace of him at North Bend or Mahlon Sweet Field.”

Right. North Bend referred to The Southwest Oregon Regional Airport and Mahlon Sweet Field was the nickname for the Eugene Airport.

Archie looked at Beau. “Could he be on the run? It seems...”

“Farfetched,” Beau agreed sardonically.

Granted, people changed. But Azizi was one of those fussy, everything-has-to-be-just-so professorial types. The type that typically didn’t do well outside of their carefully maintained fishbowl.

“What did they fall out over? The TPS. Do you know?”

Beau said gravely, “Ghost protocols.”

“What?” Archie remembered that super-serious expression of Beau’s from back in the day. The more solemn Beau looked, the more likely it was he was concocting some ridiculous story. Not in these circumstances, surely?

But yeah, that derisive curl of Beau’s upper lip was a sure sign that, privately, he found the story funny. “Apparently matters came to a head during a seance at Leo Baker’s. John said he wouldn’t permit Azizi to insult or harass spirits who had honored them with their presence. Azizi accused John of being a fascist and objectifying ghosts. He claimed John was trying to keep them for house pets.”

Archie’s jaw dropped—which seemed to amuse further amuse Beau.

“What the... Are you serious?”

Beau raised a dismissing shoulder. “I don’t know if serious is the word, but according to the other members of the TPS, that was the reason Azizi was kicked out of the society.”

“He was kicked out ?” That seemed like a surprisingly harsh action on John’s part, so the disagreement had to have been more significant than it sounded.

“Yep. Ordered to take his trusty portable electromagnetic field radiation detector and never darken their doorstep again.” Beau shrugged. “Sure, it sounds ridiculous, but you know as well as I do, they all take this stuff seriously. John included.”

There was no arguing that. Archie nodded automatically. Being cast out of the TPS would be a big deal for any of the members. Azizi would be no exception.

Archie tried to read Beau’s expression. “So Azizi’s in the wind?”

Beau grimaced. “In fairness, he doesn’t seem to have threatened John with anything but legal action, and the specifics of that were vague. It doesn’t look like he had any contact with John at all since the night at Baker’s.”

Archie opened his mouth, but Beau headed him off. “The fact that we haven’t yet verified that he flew to Nebraska, doesn’t mean he didn’t. And the fact that we can’t locate any family members, doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Azizi’s an oddball. He lived alone and he mostly kept to himself. Neighbors, colleagues, friends, fellow ghost hunters, everybody says he’s secretive and strange.”

“Well, yeah,” Archie said. “We already knew that.”

Perhaps Beau shared some of the same memories, because his cheek creased. “We sure do.”

For a moment they grinned at each other. Archie changed the subject.

“What about Jon Monig?”

Was it his imagination or did Beau hesitate? And would that be out of consideration for Archie’s feelings or because he was still holding his cards close to his chest?

Monig’s claims were genuinely disturbing. Not that Archie believed them. For one thing, he felt certain two doctors would have been, well, smart about unprotected sex even with a regular partner. John was a careful and conscientious man. Nor had Mila ever struck Archie as the spontaneous, carefree type. But even more to the point, the John he knew would not have turned his back on his child, regardless of how that child came into being. It simply did not jibe with everything Archie knew of his former guardian.

But at the same time, where had Monig gotten the idea that John was his father? Was he delusional? Or had something or someone inspired that belief? A belief strong enough to harass John into taking a paternity test, and then rejecting the results when they didn’t line up with Monig’s expectations.

Could Mila have planted that idea?

Would John and Mila have continued to work together, to remain friends, if Mila had lied about something so damaging? Same deal if, hard as it was to believe, John had turned his back on his parental responsibilities. Would Mila have found it possible to work together and even remain friends?

It seemed unlikely to Archie. Although, maybe he wasn’t the best judge, seeing that emotional intimacy wasn’t really his strong suit.

Beau glanced at his watch. “Monig claims he wasn’t invited to the ghost walk. He says he spent a quiet night at home doing dishes, laundry, etc. He had the TV on, but wasn’t really watching it. He says he didn’t talk to anyone on the phone nor respond to any texts. He claims he went to bed early. He lives alone, so no one can corroborate.”

“No alibi.”

Beau agreed, “No alibi.” He rose and moved toward the door. “I’ve got to be in court in ten minutes, so I’ll leave you to it.”

“Right.” Archie gazed up at him. “Beau, thanks for this.”

He meant it. He was grateful. Still a little surprised. But genuinely grateful.

Some emotion—discomfort? wariness?—flickered across Beau’s face, but he moved his head in acknowledgement. “Just remember, you agreed to keep your head down. I don’t want to find out you turned up at Dr. Monig’s office asking whether she told her son that John was his father.”

Archie stared blank-faced at Beau, as though such an idea had never crossed his mind.

Beau made a sound of derision. “ That’s what I thought. Don’t make me regret letting you run loose, Crane.”

“ Run loose ?” Archie echoed, understandably offended at being made to sound like a juvenile delinquent on the rampage.

“That’s right. I held up my end of the bargain. My cover story is you’re getting special dispensation because you’re a federal agent on sick leave after being injured in the line of duty. How’s it going to look to those reporters out there if they catch you sneaking out of here?”

Archie felt himself lose color. “What reporters?”

“Oh, not so many, I guess,” Beau said vaguely. “There’s the reporter for the Twinkleton Gazette . And the crime beat reporter for The Register-Guard . And then a couple of crews from KDRV NewsWatch 12, KTVL News 10, and KVAL CBS 13. I mean, I say crews , but it’s just a couple of guys in news vans with cameras.”

Archie absorbed that in quiet horror, then scowled. “Bullshit.” Beau wouldn’t be so blasé about the news media breathing down his neck.

He wasn’t sure, though.

“True,” Beau conceded. “But only because nobody’s found you yet. In case you hadn’t noticed, Fraser House Inn is officially closed, as of yesterday, while they do renovations.”

As a matter of fact, Archie had not noticed that. Nor had anyone informed him of such a thing.

“You’re here, safe and snug, as a special favor to me. But if you start getting ideas about running your own investigation, a little bird might drop a word in someone’s ear.”

Archie sat back in his chair, sputtered, “Really? Coercion? That’s nice.”

Beau shook his head. “ Coercion. You Feds sure love your codes and classifications. Here I am giving you an incentive to take a few days to rest up. Like I’m sure your boss imagines you’re doing.”

Archie’s lips parted. But really, he had no answer to that one.

Beau added, and now there was no hint of humor, “If you are grateful for getting a look at that file, then do not further complicate my life. Stay out of trouble. Rest. Relax. Read the file. Read it front to back. You have insight into John no one else does.”

Did he? Maybe. Maybe he knew more, remembered more than he realized.

“I plan on it.”

Beau nodded, turned away.

Archie said, “Hey. What about McCabe House? Can I move back in this evening?”

Beau hesitated. “I’ll let you know for sure when I check in with you later.”

Archie nodded.

Beau went out and quietly closed the door behind him.

Archie stared after him thoughtfully.

That had almost been… Well, not friendly, exactly. Cautiously cordial? He wondered again what Beau had wanted to tell him the night before. And if he could take hearing it.

He’d always assumed Beau knew exactly what he wanted. He’d always assumed he’d had no power to change the way things ended between them. For the first time he wondered if Beau had regrets. For the first time he wondered what would have happened, what Beau would have said, if he’d picked up the phone those two times Beau had called. Had he really believed Beau was just going to tell him all the same things again?

Or had he simply been too afraid to find out that there was still a chance?