Already Gone - By John Rector Page 0,50
it on his lap and flips the latches. “Have a seat, Mr. Reese.” He holds his hand over his chair. “We have quite a bit to discuss.”
I shake my head. “Not without a lawyer.”
The man smiles, but there’s something unnatural about it, something sour. Seeing it makes my stomach turn.
“We’re not the police,” he says. “And you certainly don’t need a lawyer.”
“FBI?”
The man shakes his head.
I wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t.
“Should I keep guessing?”
A line forms between the man’s eyebrows, then it’s gone just as fast. “Of course, introductions.” He motions to the man behind me. “This is Mr. Hull, and my name is Anthony Briggs. We represent a small, offshore company that I’m sure you’ve never heard of, and we need your help.”
I look back at the man standing in front of the door.
He looks anything but friendly.
“I assume I don’t have a choice.”
Briggs smiles, but when he speaks, his voice is cold.
“There’s always a choice.”
We’re both quiet for a moment. Briggs opens the briefcase on his lap. He takes out several files and sorts through them on the table, then picks one and holds it out to me.
“Take a look.”
I don’t move.
Briggs waggles the folder in the air. “I think you’ll be interested.”
I feel the man behind me step closer, so I start across the room toward the table, moving slow. When I get there, I take the file, but I don’t open it.
Briggs shuts the briefcase and sets it on the floor. He sits back and crosses one leg over the other at the knee and says, “Go on, it’ll help you make your choice.”
I open it, but at my own pace.
I tell myself that no matter what I see, I’m going to keep my emotions in check.
It doesn’t work.
There are a series of photographs inside, each one showing a different angle of Detective Nolan lying facedown in the gravel parking lot at Memorial Park. His head is open and wet.
Seeing the photos brings it all back.
My breath catches in my throat, and when I look up at Briggs, I can tell he sees it in my face.
“How did you get these?”
“We took them.”
“Crime scene photos? You told me you weren’t cops.”
“We’re not,” Briggs says. “And these aren’t crime scene photos in an official sense.”
I look at the photos again, then close the file.
“I didn’t do this.”
“I know,” Briggs says. “We did.”
I look up at him. “You did?”
“We decided Detective Nolan had served his purpose.”
“His purpose?” I step closer to the table. When I do, I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder, stopping me.
“We asked Detective Nolan to pick you up and bring you to the park.” He motions to my face. “It looks like he got a bit overzealous.”
I hold up the file. “They’re blaming me for this.”
“That was the idea.”
His voice is casual, uncaring, and it catches me off guard. For a second, there are no words.
“We need your help, Mr. Reese, and this is our way of making sure we get it.”
“By killing a cop?” I hear my voice rise, and I fight to keep myself calm. “Are you crazy?”
“Things were beginning to spiral out of control, due in part to Detective Nolan’s involvement. All we did was step in to contain the situation.” He pauses. “Unfortunately, things have become even more complicated than we expected.”
“And you need my help?”
“That’s correct.”
I hand the file back to Briggs and say, “What exactly do you want?”
“The same thing you want, Mr. Reese.” He points to my hand. “We want to find the person responsible for you losing your finger.”
I smile. I can’t help myself.
“Is something funny?”
I hold up my hand and say, “I’ve tried to figure out who did this since the night it happened. No luck.”
“Then I think we can help one another.”
“You’re not listening,” I say. “I don’t know who did this, or why. If I did, I’d have found them already.”
“Mr. Reese.”
“I’ve gone over everyone I’ve ever known, and nothing makes sense.” I shake my head. “I wouldn’t know where to start looking again.”
Briggs turns toward Hull, frowns, then looks back at me and says, “I’m afraid you don’t understand. We already know who he is. The problem is finding out where he is. That’s why we need your help.”
This time I don’t smile.
“You know who he is?”
“Oh yes,” Briggs says. “And he’s not from your past, Mr. Reese. He’s from your wife’s.”
– 32 –
“You’ve made a mistake.”
Briggs ignores me. He picks up another file, opens it, and