Leviathan Page 4

  In my thoughts, I hear Maya.

  Stop jumping to conclusions, love.

  “In my heart of hearts, I’ll never know for sure. I think someone was pulling Jim’s strings. He allowed a key suspect to escape the building and shot another agent by mistake.”

  “Are we sure it was a mistake?” Tim asks.

  I repeat the question so Hazel can hear it.

  “I want to give Agent Partridge the benefit of the doubt here. Man served his country, and died for it. His family is shattered. Wife and four kids, left without a father. America is slightly less safe. Long story short- there’s no point in tainting a good agent’s name, right?

  “That said, Ramona- I’m between a rock and a hard place here. Harry Quinn is a powerful man in D.C. He will not take this quietly. Regardless of whether we bring him shit dressed in flowers, it’s still shit to Quinn. And he can make a lot of noise at the implications.”

  I nod, only vaguely understanding of Hazel’s predicament regarding what is politically acceptable, versus not. I can’t entertain politics. I have missing kids to find.

  “Of course, sir. I will handle the situation with nothing less than the utmost care and diligence. Is that everything?”

  Hazel hesitates.

  “There’s a reason I chose you, Knox. I need someone without sentimental attachment to the book. The Spider is not following the rules. How are we supposed to win, bound by them?”

  “All due respect, Director, the rules might be all which makes us better than Jordan West. It will take longer to catch him, but we’ll both sleep easier.”

  Between Hazel’s defeat and Tim’s eyes burrowing into the back of my head, I ask to be dismissed, and leave the Director staring down the desk; hoping the answer will magically appear, scrawled across it like invisible ink.

  I don’t have the luxury of waiting for it to fall into my lap.

  Hardwick meets me in the lobby. Royce will rendezvous with us at Harry Quinn’s office, he says, which is called Dark Horse Investments.

  “Hell of a name,” I remark as we begin walking to the lot. The lower floors require less clearance, and for good reason. It is throughway for police chiefs and paper pushers, drones with swipe badges hanging from breast pockets and the President himself. Today, the ground level is quiet as it ever gets, which still comprises a small herd of faces.

  “Yeah, well... they fund a good chunk of private military compounds on the East Coast. Quinn’s company is in the pockets of several members of the House of Representatives, plus some Senators. He makes a stink, we’ll simply be legislated away from his company.”

  “Any chance he’s in collusion with West?”

  Reaching the car lot, my partner shakes his head.

  “Quinn is clean as a whistle. Probably why he takes any questions about his reputation as a personal affront.”

  The underground garage is dark as we return to the vehicle Maya helped me finance when I started at Quantico. Rows of vacant full-size vehicles occupy the way toward my muddy imitation at a police vehicle, parked in the garage’s back corner.

  “I won’t lie, Knox,” Hardwick says, “I’ve dealt with Dark Horse before- back when we first identified Jordan West as the Spider.”

  “What’s your point, Stephen?” I ask, trying not to let him see the panic his words stir up.

  “Don’t look forward to meeting the man again. That’s all.”

  Affixed over the gigantic vehicle my aunt insisted was all about image- from a wheelchair hugging her travel tank of oxygen, no less- dim lights shining on the hood do nothing to uplift my darkest thoughts. Going after Harry Quinn’s files on West might reap new clues, but carries the risk of career suicide.

  I cannot let Stephen Hardwick think I’m weak in the knees. Not only will failure rest on my own reputation, but could forever stain the good name of female law enforcement officers everywhere.

  If only for them, I have to succeed.

  Chapter Four

  The second time the man who calls himself Death appeared to me, I was six. Back when my soul was still likeable enough to be worthy of friendship, I had a companion named Alison Delahunt. We often ran the fields behind our apartments, playing Hide and Seek or exploring the woods beyond. There, train tracks cut through the trees and our imaginations could run wild.

  For someone who I used to be inseparable from, Alison and I drifted apart fairly quickly. It started small- a missed birthday party here, a no-reply there. Eventually, hours we couldn’t go without seeing each other became days and weeks, followed by months and years. I’m not sure what happened to her in the many years since.

  Pulling open the glass doors of the building Dark Horse Investments is housed in, I don’t know why Alison comes to mind. Other than the morbid figure who follows me everywhere, asking questions I don’t know the answer to, there is no connection between my childhood friend and Jordan West’s old employer.

  Royce meets us on the ground floor. In contrast to earlier, his stance is relaxed. He studies me as we join him; ears perked, grinning as he chomps on a stick on mint gum.

  “They know we’re coming?” I ask.

  “Oh yes,” Royce replies, but says nothing more.

  Dark Horse is housed on the third floor of a seven storey building, in a structure only blocks from the Hoover Building. Red cushioned walls between silver plating should form a pleasant colour scheme inside the lift, but doesn’t.

  Royce hums along with the optimistically unnerving music. Hardwick stares straight ahead. Air passes around the metal box pulled upwards, accompanied by lightness under my feet. It is all I can do, not to think of the day I fell into that ravine.

  The fall sent Alison running home to fetch Maya. She was able-bodied back then, able to follow my best friend the short distance to the woods. Alison cried and I begged her to alert my aunt that I was hurt. She would be right back, but for those few terrifying moments, I would be alone.

  I am far more fond of solitude now, but at six years old, my brow could still be sunken by the fear of it. The sound of my friend’s footsteps disappeared. I tried not to think about the pain, admiring dirt walls instead. Wood arteries, bones of roots broke out from them, reinserted lower down the mound. I watched insects burrow as the man who calls himself Death appeared, kneeling beside my tiny form.

  It will be alright, he said.

  Just as the day Maya obstructed a door to protect us from her unravelling male companion, Tim was a welcome, if not slightly terrifying, presence.

  Help will be here soon, Ro.

  I can’t look back at him now. It would invite locking eyes with Ryan Royce. I have no intention of giving the detective ideas.

  The second time I met the man who calls himself Death, the suit he adorns was impervious to nature’s mess. Dirt would not scuff his shoes, nor would it crease his blazer to kneel down beside me. He could plant his lone knee in the soil and when it lifted, there would be no sign they ever touched.

  Maya says I shouldn’t talk to strangers.

  The elevator doors open on the third floor, pulling me out of reminiscence. Hardwick takes lead down a carpeted hallway with red walls. I follow, Royce taking up the rear.

  Dark Horse Investments takes up the entire level, hidden behind a thick wooden door. The receptionist behind the desk is an older, burly woman. She slaves all day for Harry Quinn, only to go home and do the same for her husband and children. Bags run under the rushed mascara job. Her hair is short and frazzled like her.

  “Yes?” she asks as Hardwick stops at the desk. My partner grips its far side and leans down, speaking quietly. Unable, or unwilling, to eavesdrop, I study the maze of cubicles and people within; watch drones of elite Washington work their hive on phones and computers.

  The receptionist picks up her handset, dialling a three digit extension. I count the button presses; she has an annoyed breath for every one. She sees our badges, so she says nothing, but discomfort infects every glance over her desk, particularly toward me.
>
  “Mr. Quinn?” she says, “There are agents here to see you. Oh, you were expecting them. I see. I will tell them. Thank you, sir.”

  The woman hangs up, informing us her boss will be right out. I glance at Hardwick, who tries to conceal a pout; then Royce, chewing gum, looking anything other than professional.

  When Harry Quinn appears, he shakes each of our hands. His hair is red like his beard. There’s no tie around the collar, only open neckline. Between it, more hair sprouts from beneath his shirt.

  Drinks of the night before linger on his breath; the cologne he applied fails to mask it. His grip is firm and my tiny fingers almost buckle inside its pressure. When he releases the handshake, moving to Royce, my knuckles throb.

  “Agents,” Quinn says, “This visit is most...questionable.”

  “Our apologies, Harry,” Hardwick says, “We’re just trying old leads again, trying to dig up something new. We don’t mean to make trouble for you, but my colleague has some further questions.”

  Hardwick gestures to me, Quinn’s gaze snapping with him. The eyes are hollow, in sharp contrast to the show he puts on for strangers who won’t bust his balls.

  “I understand,” the CEO says, “Unfortunately, this is not a good time. My wife had to drop my children off to me. Work emergency. You understand. I do not wish them to be subjected to such things.”

  “This won’t take long, Mr. Quinn,” I say, “Maybe your secretary could watch them in your office while we speak? After that, we will trouble you no further.”

  Quinn sighs, torn between telling us to shove off and his desire to never see each other again. He excuses himself, walking to reception- instructing Catherine, as he calls her, to watch the children.

  “Follow me,” he says, pulling us along the back wall of the cubicle maze, where the hive’s only view is their boss watching every move. After the third glass office, we come to a conference room. Our host gestures us to step inside, and take a seat. A long rounded table with two CISCO phones on either side is otherwise barren, and the windows are wide. Quinn closes the door, lowering the blinds as we take our seats in a row on the table’s far side. Quinn takes the chair closest to him on the other side.

  Tim remains standing, lurking in the room’s corner.

  “Now,” Quinn says, sitting back, crossing his legs under the table, “how can I help the Bureau this time?”

  Hardwick has nothing, but Quinn’s eyes were on me anyway. The idea any woman has the audacity to approach him for questioning in broad daylight is an unnerving concept to Harry Quinn.

  Here goes nothing.

  “I would like to know about your relationship about Jordan West.”

  Quinn chuckles, looking to my colleagues.

  “Really?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, sir,” I say, “You’re not on my radar.” He relaxes, shoulders and neck sinking. “But as I am relatively new to this case, and West worked five years at your company, you must understand why I’m inclined to make sure nothing was missed.”

  “Look,” Quinn protests, “I’ve told the FBI everything I know about Jordan West-”

  “And yet, more children keep disappearing, Mr. Quinn.”

  The CEO holds out both palms in a gesture of surrender.

  “I have nothing to do with that, Agent Knox.”

  “Of course not. But desperate times call for us to do uncomfortable things. Ask questions we would rather not ask ourselves, or even know the answers to. In times of crisis, Mr. Quinn, this is about the greater good. Considering that, I would appreciate if you answered my question.”

  “Go easy,” Tim advises from the crevice, “Too much pressure is just as bad as too little.”

  But Quinn sighs, knowing there lies logic in what I’m saying. All those families are torn apart, kept awake wondering, while his children sleep soundly.

  In the eyes of men like Harry Quinn, perception is everything.

  “I met Jordan West in the spring of 1982. He was a Harvard graduate, working for a competitor. Kirk Downpatrick. I recruited him to my firm in the summer of 1983. He became a partner in 1987-”

  “And disappeared the following year,” I finish, “Year after that, children started disappearing, and they have been ever since.”

  “Yes. But as you say, Miss Knox, that all began after Mr. West left this firm. Something you have just confirmed, rendering this line of questioning thoroughly irrelevant.”

  I ignore the CEO’s jab at my ability to do the job I signed up for. It is subtle, but mocking.

  “Did Jordan West ever share any...stories from his background with you? No?” I say when Quinn doesn’t respond. “Grew up in a little Virginian suburb. Parents were blue collar. Teacher, and a librarian. Nothing fancy. No arrest record prior to college- and even that was a misunderstanding. No run-ins with the law after that.”

  “If you’re asking whether Jordan West told me he had some grand plan to abduct children across the nation, the answer is no.”

  This conversation exasperates him, but he knows to play it cool; ignore my steel hazel eyes and dead exterior.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Quinn; I’m only asking if anything you know about Jordan West could explain this hellish contradiction between a man from the middle class D.C. suburbs and the one we’re after. Not even... professionally speaking. Just something you might know to make sense of it all.”

  Quinn chuckles, standing from his chair. He paces from it toward the room’s end, where blinds are drawn, preventing any overlap of wrongdoing between this box and the company he built from nothing.

  He knows something.

  “Jordan West was always a private man. Unmarried, no kids. He could trade sports talk on a dime, but it was always a pre-recorded response, I guess. Very….”

  “Feigned?” I ask.

  “Yes. You couldn’t get the man to divulge anything about himself. But he had the qualities which mattered to us. Education, work ethic, and the guy was just...brilliant. Believe me,” he scoffs, staring into the depth of his obstructed reflection, “I was surprised as anyone, when it was his name that came out.

  “All I can tell you,” Harry Quinn says, “is that until the day he disappeared, Jordan was an upstanding citizen. Deacon of his church, mentored children, ran Bible study sessions here in this very office-”

  A light bulb goes off in my brain- not because I wanted to consider it, but because it’s the first time I am hearing of Jordan West having religious affiliations.

  “Wait,” I interrupt, “Deacon?”

  I look at Hardwick beside me.

  “Did you know about this?”

  Hardwick shrugs.

  “A bit, but it wasn’t an angle we pursued heavily. Didn’t seem huge. Interviewed the clergy, all that. They weren’t terribly knowledgeable, either.”

  Before anyone can follow up, the conference door opens. Two children enter, running to Quinn. He acts taken aback by their entrance, but I see the ruse as he bends down to hug them. The receptionist follows through the doorway, pretending to apologize. I have everything I needed, or the precocious diversion would hold more water.

  “Sorry,” he tells us, “These are my children, Sarah and Victor.”

  I don’t pay attention to either child; only notice the son has red hair like the father, whereas the sister’s is black. Her eyes are brown, in contrast to the Quinn men’s blue irises.

  “Go,” he instructs the kids, kissing each on the forehead, sending them toward the door. “I’ll be right there, guys.”

  I watch them both leave; when we are alone again, I remark on the similarity between Quinn and his son.

  “Ah yes,” the CEO chuckles, “Full of fire, that one. My daughter Sarah, thankfully, inherited her mother’s qualities. So, at least one of them is salvageable.”

  Bit harsh.

  “Well,” I say, feigning a smile, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Quinn. You were most helpful.”

  Shuffling out of the conference room; greeted by the cubicl
e maze and filing past reception, I wait to lean into Hardwick’s ear, telling him I want to scope out the church.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” my partner replies as we return to the elevator. “Ryan?”

  Royce, who has been quiet until now, nods in agreement.

  “Much as I’m not looking to piss off God, the lady has a point. We’ve combed this things six ways from Sunday and never thought to go to that fucking church for a follow-up.”

  The sound of elevator music haunts my ears once more, but nothing like the look in Harry Quinn’s eyes, or the way he spoke of his only son.

  Maybe having dead parents isn’t the worst thing in the world.

  Chapter Five

  I was never a believer. In much of anything, including myself. Kind of hard to invest in a higher power when your father shoots your mother in a drug-fuelled haze, then turns the gun on himself at the bottom of a gravel pit everyone else mistakes for a quarry.

  My presence in God’s house, admittedly, has been scarce for most of my life. Maya was hardly religious, and sent me to a public school. Never took me to church, thus I was never schooled on God, Christ or anything remotely spiritual.

  The closest I ever came was sitting with Maya’s friend Glenda, who professed to be a spirit healer. The only thing she seemed to heal was her clients’ pockets of having money in them.

  Pulling up to the church in my SUV, our eyes collectively fall on a slanted roof and double doors like nightfall bears down on the suburbs surrounding it. Royce cocks his head in the backseat, trying to see what this house with a cross on its roof could possibly be hiding.

  At the window behind Hardwick, my guardian angel looks bored. He appears in my rearview; turning my head back at Royce, the seat is vacant.

  “Honestly, guys?” the detective says, chomping gum like cud, “I don’t know what the fuck we’re expecting here. I’m all for following the trail, but I got no plan on going to Hell, you hear?”

  “Religious, detective?” I ask through the slit of mirror above me.