Ghosted

Chapter Nineteen

Archie was not particularly political.

He voted, of course, but his decisions were based on the character of the candidate and the issues of concern to him. Though he was a federal employee, he did not want the government (for obvious reasons) sticking its nose in his private life. He suspected most people felt the same. But the hostility and hatred Breland and his comrades felt for the federal government—and federal agents—was something he’d never encountered before. Off the charts didn’t describe it. More like, stuck orbiting Mars. Over the past year he’d heard a lot, in nauseating detail, about torturing and murdering federal agents. Not just federal agents. Law enforcement in general. Oh, and the military as well. Play soldiers cheerfully discussing murdering real soldiers. That had been Breland’s plan. But basically, the True Sons of Alliance wanted to kill anyone who told them no. Archie had come to the conclusion that politics, for these assholes, were just a rationale for acting out their antisocial, possibly sociopathic, urges.

It had been exhausting and frequently nerve-wracking living on that knife’s edge of discovery for nearly two years.

So to wake up and not find himself in a paramilitary encampment, not hear muted voices and cursing from a bunch of hungover guys, the buzz of generators, static crackle of radios; to not smell gunpowder and oil and wet canvas and the unsavory odors of too many bodies in close quarters; to wake up instead to sunshine, the fragrance of coffee, the placid hum of a vacuum cleaner downstairs, and the spiraling flute-like notes of a thrush singing outside his window, made tears of gratitude prickle beneath his eyelids.

He lay perfectly still, breathing softly, steadily, letting go of the familiar instant surge of adrenaline and hyperawareness that had helped keep him alive for so many months. Jesus . The simple joy of clean sheets and a comfortable bed.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and that was as much to John as to God.

He was a bit less joyful when he tried to get out of bed and realized his bruised muscles had locked up overnight, but he popped a couple of pain pills with the rest of his meds, and a long, steaming hot shower helped a lot. Even better, the ringing in his ears that had supplied the soundtrack to his life for the last few weeks had finally faded into silence.

He dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt and went downstairs.

Mrs. Simms had finished vacuuming and was in the kitchen frying bacon and eggs. The dishwasher was sloshing soothingly and the trash scattered across the table had been cleared away. The table was now neatly set for breakfast.

She glanced at Archie, smiled, and said, “Someone’s feeling better.”

Better than he deserved, probably. Archie said, “I’m sorry. I meant to clean all that up before you got here.” Archie glanced at the stove. “Simmy, really, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to,” she said. “Dr. Perry gave me the gift of security, and I’ll always be grateful. But I don’t want to sit at home reorganizing my canned goods shelf.”

“Sure, but you could volunteer, you could travel, you could…just go to lunch with your friends.”

“I can do all that later. What I’d like to do,” Mrs. Simms said, “is look after you while you’re here. I feel that’s the best way to show my gratitude to Dr. Perry.”

Why did that kind of thing close his throat? Mrs. Simms was a good and kind person. It shouldn’t be a surprise that she felt a sense of responsibility toward him.

“That’s—I appreciate it. But I don’t think John wanted you to feel you owed him anything. And I’ve been looking after myself a long now.”

She studied him, raised her brows, and Archie nearly laughed.

“Okay, yes, I might look a little the worse for wear at the moment, but you know, I’m not going to be here long. I’ll be heading back to D.C. when my leave is over.”

“Then I can’t see it does any harm for me to be here until then?”

He was pretty sure he should not agree. This could not be what John intended. But as he stood there trying to think of a nice way to refuse, his stomach growled. The sound was almost comically loud.

“Would you like your breakfast now?” Mrs. Simms inquired, absolutely deadpan.

Archie said meekly, “Yes, please,” and took his seat at the table.

Anyway, it was just for a little while. No point pretending that it wasn’t kind of nice to have someone concerned with his well-being. Besides, Mrs. Simms was a potential resource for information on John and the last months of his life.

Mrs. Simms set a plate of fried eggs, bacon, and sliced avocado in front of Archie, along with a smaller plate of buttered toast. She poured coffee into one of the pale blue mugs, added cream and sugar, and brought that to the table, too.

“Do the police seem to be any closer to figuring out who killed Dr. Perry?”

Even though Archie had given Beau a hard time about the first forty-eight hours, he said, “It’s still pretty early in the investigation.”

“There can’t be many suspects.”

“No. But it’s not the kind of thing you want to get wrong.”

She considered that, said slowly, “People are talking about the ridiculous things Mrs. Winslow said to you on Monday.” Her gray eyes met Archie’s. “She thinks very highly of herself, but most people don’t take her opinions as seriously.”

That was about as crushing a criticism as Archie had ever heard Mrs. Simms make of anyone.

“I hope not.” His appetite had faded at the reminder of Judith’s slander, but he made himself dip a strip of crispy toast into the golden face of the perfectly fried egg. “Who do people think might be responsible?”

“Some people think it must have been random. A stranger passing through.” She seemed to be watching his reaction.

“No.”

“No,” agreed Mrs. Simms. “The note proves that it couldn’t have been random.”

Archie looked up quickly. “Simmy, don’t mention that note or the envelope to anyone who isn’t law enforcement.”

“Of course not.” She looked slightly amused. “I’ve seen every episode of Murder, She Wrote at least twice.”

Archie blinked. “Right.”

“Some people are speculating that Dr. Perry was being blackmailed, and that the blackmailer killed him when Dr. Perry threatened to go the police.”

Archie’s jaw dropped. “ Blackmail ? John?”

“I know. It’s such nonsense. But there’s a rumor that he was pulling large sums out of his investments on a regular basis.”

“According to who?”

She shook her head.

Archie considered briefly, said shortly, “There’s no way.”

“I agree. Dr. Perry would never do anything he could be blackmailed for.”

“Even if he did, he’d never submit to being blackmailed. He wasn’t the right personality type to make a good victim.”

Mrs. Simm’s repeated staunchly, “Dr. Perry would never do anything he could be blackmailed for.”

Never was a long time. But Archie agreed with her. He just couldn’t picture John committing insurance fraud or medical malpractice or writing fake scrips or running a pill mill or falsifying patient records or doing any of the many things that might conceivably get doctors into trouble.

He said, “Anyway, how would anyone know he was pulling out large sums? How would a rumor like that get started?”

“I’ve no idea. It seems to me it would be an ethical violation to share that kind of information.”

“At the least.” Archie sipped his coffee, and Mrs. Simms moved away to wash up the breakfast pans.

As he was finishing up his meal, Archie said, “Simmy, did John say anything about leaving a letter for me?”

She glanced up from the mixing bowl—he was afraid to ask what she was preparing next. Cookies? A cake? There had always been plenty of that in the old days, though Archie didn’t eat many sweets. John did. And Beau did.

“No,” she said slowly. “But it would be in the safe, wouldn’t it?”

“I’d have thought so, but the police went through the safe and there was no letter.”

“Are you sure there is such a letter?”

“I hope so. Ms. Madison seemed pretty sure of it.”

“Then it must be somewhere else in the house.”

They stared at each other, but no bolt of enlightenment struck.

“Perhaps his bedroom? Perhaps your bedroom?” she suggested.

Not his bedroom or he’d have surely found it by now.

“Maybe? Thanks.” Archie finished his last bite of breakfast.

“More coffee?”

Archie agreed to more coffee, and Mrs. Simms topped up his mug.

“It’s going to be hard going back to real life after this,” Archie admitted. A homemade meal that didn’t include MREs or franks and beans? Heaven.

Her little smile was just a touch complacent, but she said seriously, “I think Dr. Perry hoped this would be your real life.”

Archie didn’t have a ready answer for that. He settled for an apologetic, noncommittal smile.

Mrs. Simms said, “You liked working at the Portland FBI office, as I recall.”

“Yep. I did. But I’m based in Washington D.C. now.”

She considered and sighed. “I suppose you love D.C. You always longed for big cities and bright lights.”

Archie smiled faintly at the bright lights comment. It was true that he couldn’t wait to get out of Twinkleton, to get back to “civilization.” But it turned out, he wasn’t that crazy about D.C.’s bright lights. He had never been much for the nightlife or social scene. He was not and never would be a party animal. The job in D.C. had been all about career advancement and doing something that really mattered.

Mrs. Simms returned to her mixing bowl, remarking, “Well, maybe we’ll win you over. Dr. Perry said it would be a while before you were well enough to go back to work.”

Archie couldn’t help an amused, “You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”

Simmy looked abashed, but then chuckled.

After breakfast, Archie returned to John’s study and opened the safe hidden behind the gold-framed full-length, door-sized portrait of Jacqueline McCabe.

He had half expected that John might have changed the combination over the years and forgot to tell him, but nope. It was the same exact sequence of numbers John had shared when Archie turned twenty-one.

It was a large safe, and there was too much to go through in depth before his meeting with Frances Madison at her office, but he wanted to at least get a look at the contents.

He already knew from Beau that he would find a copy of John’s will and life insurance policy, the deed to McCabe House, bank account information, investment records, bearer bonds, certificates of stock ownership… Archie had a few investments himself, but these ledgers and documents were in a different league. He was going to need help—possibly a forensic accountant—to really understand what he was looking at.

There were business records, not a lot, but most of that would be in the medical office building John shared with Mila. John’s passport and identification documents were there, along with a copy of Archie’s birth certificate and documents of guardianship. Archie was hoping the letter to himself might be tucked inside that packet. It was not.

Beau was correct. There was no letter to Archie in the safe.

Mostly, the items in the safe were exactly what Archie expected: an envelope with a modest two hundred dollars in cash for emergencies. Unexpected: a large manila envelope with an assortment of photos of Archie at various points in his life.

Not that Archie was surprised John had photos of him. The house was full of framed photos of Archie from age sixteen on. These were of Archie before he had moved to Oregon. Baby pictures, toddler pics, awkward junior high portraits. John had saved them for Archie, and that was typical of John.

Truthfully, Archie would have preferred to have photos that included his parents—he didn’t have many of those; his parents had not been into photography as John had. But it was still a very nice thought.

Anyway. In short, nothing useful.

Well, no. That wasn’t true. There was plenty in the safe that was of use, but nothing pointing toward a motive for John’s murder.

No blackmail letters.

He hadn’t imagined there would be. Had there been, Beau would certainly have mentioned them.

His back was starting to twinge. He rose and cautiously stretched. Beau had probably done him a favor by bribing him to take a day to rest up. Some of the most troubling symptoms—the sensitivity to light and sound, the nausea, the dizziness—had largely dissipated.

However, he was still supposed to be resting, still supposed to be under a doctor’s care. Maybe he could interview Mila on the pretext of setting up a medical appointment. Beau would likely be skeptical, but after all, Archie knew Mila, so she was an obvious choice.

Maybe. He truly didn’t want to do anything to damage this fragile—and kind of lovely—truce with Beau. But.

Archie’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the number, smiled faintly, pressed accept.

“Agent David.”

Special Agent Betty David exclaimed, “ Well! Thank God, Crane. I couldn’t decide if you had a relapse or you were ghosting me.”

“Sorry. I only got your note last night. Thank you for that. I was just about to call you.”

“Yeah, well, you should have had that medal weeks ago. Your weapon, too, although that you’ll probably never see again. OPR and SIRG both cleared you. Didn’t Wagner tell you?”

“I think she’s a little preoccupied right now.”

Betty made a sound of disgust. “You mean because Breland offed himself? Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

Archie couldn’t argue with that. As much as he tried to stay dispassionate about the subjects of his investigations, he had hated—even now hated—John Breland.

David asked, “How are you feeling? How’s the concussion coming along?”

Archie said vaguely, “Remind me where I know you from?”

“Ha ha. But seriously. How are you?”

“Seriously, I’m okay. Better than okay. This week is definitely an improvement.”

Last night had definitely been an improvement. Possibly a turning point.

“ That’s a relief. I was getting nervous. Everyone’s really close-mouthed when it comes to you.”

“Close-mouthed about me?” Archie repeated doubtfully.

Betty said, “Not about you, specifically. By which I mean, your identity is being closely guarded outside the Bureau. Also, your whereabouts. Safe to say, you’re probably not the most popular guy over in the Fringe universe.”

Now, there was an unpleasant thought. One that had not previously occurred to Archie. He was silent, thinking, and Betty said in a different tone of voice, “Crane. I wanted to tell you. I’m really sorry about your—”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Is there any progress in the case?”

“The investigation is ongoing.”

“One hopes!”

“No, I mean, this is a small-town police department with limited resources.”

“Why don’t they hand it off to State or—”

“I… It’s complicated.”

“ Is it?”

“It’s a homicide in their own back yard. It’s understandable they want to have first crack at solving it.”

“But if they don’t have the resources—”

I know.” He couldn’t help the note of weariness.

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do on this end?”

It was tempting. Archie said, “Not at this juncture. I know the chief. I think he’ll communicate with me if he thinks the investigation has hit a wall.”

Hopefully. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure of that.

Into his silence, Betty said, “The Eugene RA just posted the listing for a Supervisory Special Agent.”

There was a complete tangent. The correct answer was, And I would care about this why?

No agent at HQ, meaning the FBI headquarters in D.C., was looking to transfer anywhere , let alone an RA. FBI Resident Agencies were typically much smaller than the main field offices, such as the Portland Field Office where Archie had worked when he was still a fairly new agent. The typical RA might have as few as five special agents, and maybe one or two additional support staff. Transferring from HQ to an RA wasn’t even a lateral move. It was like throwing yourself off the gameboard into the firepit.

That said, the Eugene RA was about an hour from Twinkleton, so if Archie had been looking to transfer…

He was not, of course. Although he couldn’t help wondering if the universe was trying to tell him something.

“Have you been talking to my housekeeper?”

Betty echoed, “Your housekeeper ?”

“John’s housekeeper.” He changed the subject, said neutrally, “Anyway, the position will go to someone in-house.”

“Maybe. Probably. Unless an experienced agent with a slew of commendations, and roots to the community, were to apply.”

He was a little surprised they were still having this conversation.

“Twinkleton isn’t Eugene. And I don’t have a slew of commendations.”

“You sure as hell will before the year is out. The rumor is Medal of Valor.”

No way. Archie made uncomfortable noises, and said, “I don’t want to be stuck behind a desk. I don’t want to be a supervisor. I don’t want to transfer to Oregon. Other than that , it sounds like my dream job.”

“ Ohhhhkaaay . Message received. And here I was thinking you might be ready for something new.”

Was she kidding? He pretty much was already dealing with all the new he could handle.

Archie said briskly, “I appreciate that. I appreciate you—”

“And you think you’re not cut out for management!”

Archie gave an unwilling laugh. “Yeah, but I do appreciate you, David.”

“I appreciate you, too, Crane. You were the best partner I ever had. So, take this for what it’s worth. Nothing stays the same. Like the philosophers say: move it or lose it.”