Long Road to Mercy

Chapter 8

“Good morning, Special Agent Pine.”

Pine had just unlocked the door of the FBI’s office in Shattered Rock. It was a hardened portal with a pickproof lock and an intercom-and-video system. It might seem like overkill in a place like this, but there was a good reason for such enhanced security protocols. In the late seventies two FBI agents in El Centro, California, had been shotgunned to death in their unsecure office by a social worker under investigation for misuse of funds. Ever since then the Bureau had hardened pretty much all their offices in the field, from the largest to the smallest.

Carol Blum had greeted Pine from her desk in the front room of the two-room office. The other building tenants included a law firm, a dentist, a home contractor, and a title insurance company.

And another federal law enforcement agency.

Pine shut the door behind her.

“You know, Carol, we’ve been working together for a while now. You can just call me Atlee.”

“I like to keep things professional. I understand that was the way Mr. Hoover preferred it.”

“Well, the offer remains open. And Mr. Hoover was a long time ago.”

Pine had on jeans held up by a wide leather belt with a large square brass buckle, dusty boots, and a white shirt with a windbreaker over it. By contrast, Blum was dressed in a navy blue jacket and white pleated skirt. Low heels, nylons, and her thick, auburn hair carefully done up in a bun. Her makeup was minimal, and Pine actually thought she needed none. She was a striking woman who had kept herself fit, possessing enormous emerald green eyes that contrasted vividly with the reddish hair, an angular chin, elevated knuckles of cheekbones, and an air about her that seemed exotic, as silly and dated as that term seemed now. But the other term someone would unfailingly apply to her would be: professional.

“I put your recent case files on your desk. Flagstaff will be calling in this afternoon for a routine update. It’s on your calendar.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, I like it that you never post and coast.”

Pine lifted her gaze to the woman’s.

Blum said, “I’ve worked in other offices where right before the supervisor sit-down comes, agents rush around to drop in a new page and a fresh serial number.”

“I know what the term means, Carol.”

“But you never do that.”

“Never saw the point. I work cases to solve them, not play paperwork tricks.”

“How was your time off?”

“It was just fine.”

“What did you do?”

“I went on a trip.”

“Somewhere fun?”

“Not particularly, no.”

The enormous eyes widened a bit more. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not really, no.”

The eyes dimmed. “Would you like some coffee? I just purchased a Keurig for the office.”

“That must have cost you a ton of paperwork.”

“It would have except I bought it with my own money.”

“You’re brave. Coffee would be great, thanks.”

“Black?”

“Just like always.”

Pine went into her office and closed the door.

She found it puzzling and more than a bit hypocritical that Blum wanted to keep things strictly professional and was still eager to learn every facet of her boss’s personal life. But then again, maybe she was just being friendly. Despite being together for about a year, Pine didn’t think she knew Blum very well.

She probably thinks the same thing about me. And maybe that’s just fine.

She hung up her windbreaker in a small closet, sat down behind the battered, standard issue gunmetal-gray desk, the kind that the FBI seemed to own by the boatload, and turned on her desktop computer.

The Bureau was still behind the times on technology, and her computer was about eight years old. When she really needed to crank out something she just used her laptop or her phone. Some days she was surprised she didn’t still have a dial-up internet browser.

Blum knocked and came in carrying a steaming cup of coffee with a saucer.

“Did you eat breakfast?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you hungry? I can run to the bagel shop. It’s no trouble.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I have six kids. I know that for a fact.”

Pine glanced up from a file she had just opened. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Anything else?”

Pine knew that Blum just wanted to keep busy, but the fact was Pine could pretty much do everything by herself. It was only a matter of time before the Bureau figured that out, too, and made her secretary expendable. But then again, the wheels of the FBI’s bureaucracy could turn very slowly. Blum might actually retire before they caught on.

“No, I’m—” She paused as Blum looked at her expectantly. “There is one thing. Can you find out if the letters j and k hold any significance? And not just as alphabet letters.”

“In relation to what?”

“They were carved on the hide of a dead mule at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I know it’s not much to go on, and I don’t expect you’ll find anything.”

However, Blum was looking pensive. “Well, one thing does come to mind. But let me research it for a bit.”

She walked out. Pine stared after her in surprise for a moment before spending the next hour going over her other case files in preparation for her monthly phone call with her supervisor. She had spent her time here getting to know all the law enforcement in the area. Pine had also visited the local Indian tribes, who, collectively, had an enormous footprint here. They were not the sort you won over in a matter of weeks. It was baby steps, a little at a time. But during her time here Pine had already captured a bank robber, broken up an opioid ring, and nailed a serial rapist preying on those living on tribal lands, and that had helped her gain the trust of those she needed to do her job.

She moved her case files to the side and finished her coffee, which tasted strong and acidic going down. She glanced over at the far wall that still bore the indentation of a fist.

It had not been thrown by Pine, but at Pine by a suspect who had decided to turn violent.

The second indentation in the wall below the first was larger.

It marked where the suspect had been thrown headfirst into the wall after his fist had missed its mark and Pine had brought the dispute to a swift resolution.

She was cuffing the man with her knee firmly planted into the lower back of the nearly unconscious man when Blum, who had certainly heard the scuffle, had calmly opened the door and asked Pine whether she needed the police to take the “moron” away.

It had been her suggestion that Pine leave the marks on the wall.

“Some people are visually stimulated,” Blum had said. “And a picture is worth a thousand words.”

It had been a brilliant suggestion, Pine had thought, and the marks had remained. The guy had filed a complaint against her. Said that Pine had attacked him without cause. Ever since then, Pine had kept a hidden video camera in her office with audio capability. The button to activate it was in the knee well of her desk. It wasn’t for her protection, at least not her physical protection. It was in case another “moron” tried to lie about who attacked whom.

Her cell phone buzzed. She looked at the number and frowned. She took another sip of her coffee.

Flagstaff was calling. Early. That was never a good thing.

“Pine,” she said.

“Hold for Roger Avery, please,” said a woman’s voice.

Roger Avery?

He was not Pine’s immediate supervisor, and thus she had not been expecting a call from him. He was two levels above her immediate boss. He’d been with the Bureau for only six years, less than half her time on the clock, but now agents were making supervisor in as little as three or four years. Pine had never filed the necessary paperwork to make supervisor and indeed had fought against every effort to take her from the field and plop her permanently in an office. She had a distinct opinion of an FBI supervisor: They sat at desks all day and told other agents how to run their cases, playing Monday morning quarterback at every opportunity, while others did the heavy lifting.

Pine could stomach her direct contact, but she never liked to talk to Avery. She’d rather undergo a colonoscopy without the propofol.

The voice came on a moment later. “Pine?”

“Yes, sir,” said Pine.

“Surprised to hear from me?”

“Well, I was expecting the call to go over my cases. But not from you, sir.”

“I like to keep my finger on the pulse, so I’m making the calls this week.”

Finger on the pulse. The man would have failed every polygraph given to him.

“The call’s on my calendar for this afternoon.”

“I just thought I’d get it done earlier. I know you don’t like to sit behind your desk. But if you’re busy?”

Like any other supervisor, he didn’t mean that. If she told him to take a flying leap, her ass was done. She said, “No, absolutely works for me.” She reached for her case files, but his next words made her stop.

“I’m sure you’re doing just fine on your regular caseload. I’ve never had to ding you on anything in that regard.”

His words were clear enough. He had had to ding her on sometimes too zealously pursuing her cases. Yet she had never felt that hurt feelings or a broken limb should ever be cause for not discovering the truth. The “moron” she’d launched into the drywall had not just filed a complaint against her, he’d also filed a lawsuit. Both had been dismissed after it was learned that the man had attacked cops and ordinary citizens with regularity.

“Okay,” said Pine. “Is there something else you need then, because I was actually just about to head out?”

“Let’s talk about the Canyon.”

Now Pine eased forward in her cheap desk chair. It was a ratty piece of crap from a going-out-of-business office store and had no lumbar or any other sort of support. It was like sitting on Jell-O in the middle of an earthquake. She was pretty sure she’d end up just buying a new chair using Agency funds and take the heat for not filing the necessary forms. If the Bureau’s admin folks wanted to travel to Shattered Rock and smack her hand for buying something decent to sit on, so be it.

“The Canyon?” she said.

“The dead mule?”

“Right.”

“How’s it progressing?” asked Avery.

“I’m working it. Early days.”

“Right. I just wanted some more details.”

“I did forward my prelim report to you.”

“I read it. I was wondering how things are going since then.”

Pine said, “I don’t know who did it, why they did it, how they did it, or where they are now. Other than that, things are going pretty good.”

He ignored this sarcasm, which surprised her. “Benjamin Priest?”

Pine had, as yet, told no one that the man calling himself Benjamin Priest was not in fact Benjamin Priest.

“I talked to his brother late last night.”

“And what were the results of that conversation?” said Avery patiently.

I think he knows the answer and he wants me to confirm it. Or not.

“His brother knew nothing about Capricorn Consultants. No address, no contact info. His brother had never really spoken about it to him. And I can find no evidence the place even exists.” Before he could respond to this Pine decided to turn the tables. “Have you been able to confirm otherwise, sir?”

“I’m not working the case, Pine. You are.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What else?”

Pine decided to drop an H-bomb. “It seems that the National Security Branch is interested in this case. Maybe you’ve heard something?”

Avery didn’t say anything for a few seconds, which felt infinitely longer to Pine. All she could hear was her supervisor’s breathing. It seemed to have quickened a bit.

Did I just piss my whole career away?

“Keep working the case, Pine,” he finally said. “And if you need help, ask for it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And... Atlee?”

“Atlee” now? Curiouser and curiouser.

“Yes?”

“Make sure you have eyes in the back of your head.”

The line went dead.

Pine had been given that advice exactly one other time in her career.

And it had come during a case when it turned out the Bureau had been watching her.

A moment later Blum opened the door. She must have heard the phone ring and at least the distant murmurings of her conversation.

“Is everything all right, Agent Pine?”

Pine looked up at her.

“Everything’s just fine, Ms. Blum.”