Once Quiet (Jack Widow Book 5) Page 11

“What price? You ran away from home and never looked back. Sounds great to me.”

  Widow nodded and said, “You’re right. I ran away from home. But I always looked back.”

  Casey didn’t say anything, but listened.

  “I didn’t speak to my mother for sixteen years. I didn’t call. I didn’t write. I didn’t send a postcard.”

  “Why not?”

  Widow was quiet and then he said, “I wanted to, but one day led to a week later, which led to a month later, and then it was years. See, kid, right now you’ve got a world out there in front of you, but you also have a timer. Everyone’s got a timer. Barring life’s dangers, you have a lot more left on your timer than most people.”

  “I know that whole speech about I got my whole life to live.”

  “You might know that part, but see, what they don’t tell you is that when you get a little older, that timer speeds up and speeds up and before you know it, that timer is racing by. And your mother doesn’t have the timer you got. Your mother doesn’t have as much left on her timer as you have. That means you gotta see her on her timer because one day the people you love won’t be there anymore. Then you are left alone.”

  Casey looked down at the ground.

  Widow said, “John, there’s not a day that goes by I don’t wish I had sacrificed my own timer so that I could be on my mom’s more.”

  Widow stood up, stretched his legs out. He placed a hand on the kid’s shoulder. He said, “California is beautiful. So are a lot of places in this world. But without people who love you, they are empty. Trust me. Besides, California ain’t going nowhere.”

  He removed his hand and started walking past Casey. He stopped five feet away and turned back to the kid. He said, “Spend this time being a kid. You’ll have the rest of your life to be an adult. You’ll never be afforded this time again. Good luck, John.”

  Casey looked at Widow’s back as he walked away. He watched Widow rolling his sleeves back down to his wrists. His eyes stayed locked on the back of the door as it closed behind Widow. Then he looked at his iPhone—thirty-plus missed calls and voicemails and text messages. All were from home. All were from a worried mother. All were important.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE FBI AGENT stared at her watch. It was 12:15 pm. She watched the second hand change and then the minute hand make its next click onto the three on her watch face.

  She liked old clocks and wristwatches, none of that digital crap, none of that staring at her smartphone for the time. She had always had a watch. This one was especially important to her because it had been a gift. Under the face, under where she was looking, was a personal engraving from her sister, one of her last keepsakes.

  The FBI agent was in Seattle, at a federal building on Roosevelt Road, full of glass and metal, across from a juvenile detention center and down the street from the coffee district. She sat at a steel desk, staring out the window. Computer screens flashed around her. There were other desks and offices and other agents nearby. Some spoke to each other and some talked on office phones, while others typed away on their keyboards or texted on their personal phones.

  She heard all the same office sounds that she had heard for the last fifteen years with the bureau. Office machines clicked, telephones rang, and printers zipped out paperwork.

  She had her chin buried in her hand, resting, holding her head upright while she stared out the window.

  Nothing was different for her. Nothing felt different, not deep down where she had buried things.

  She pulled her phone out and looked at an old photo of her sister. The ten-year anniversary of her sister’s death was tomorrow. She didn’t cry. She had done plenty of that.

  She laid her phone flat down on the desk and hit the spacebar on her computer. The screen lit up and the internet browser was still left on a two-week-old article from a small, rinky-dink online publication in a town called Eureka, Montana.

  The publication was so small that even the website looked like it was a dying newspaper. There were only two pages. The first page was covered in local stories about trespassers and county ordinances passing or not passing and a story about the long sting of losing their timber industry and two stories about the local high school football team. But she wasn’t interested in any of those reports. The only one she was interested in was a tiny article about a man in a coma, a man named Liam Sossaman.

  She was only interested in one part of the article. She was interested in the part about how he had been in a coma for nearly ten years. It was the part about an obscure Montana State law that said a person who was comatose, without leaving previous instructions on the matter, had to be kept alive for ten years and then the family could decide whether to unplug the patient.

  It had been ten years since Liam had fallen into a coma. She suspected that his wife would pull the plug.

  She knew that she should’ve moved on. She should’ve forgotten about her sister, but she also felt that justice had been ripped from her.

  The FBI agent opened a drawer and pulled out an FBI badge in a flip, leather billfold. She flipped it and stared at the badge. It read a name: Lucy Escobar.

  It belonged to her dead sister.

  CHAPTER 19

  WIDOW DIDN’T WALK out to the street too fast. He had left the kid to think about their conversation and then he swung a right, out the train station doors, and reentered the café. He sat in the same swivel chair at the counter as he had before and he ordered the same espresso, another double shot. The same guy reading a USA Today sat across from him, only now he wasn’t reading the paper. He laid it down on the bar top and ordered a refill of his coffee, which Widow assumed to be decaf because the barista used a coffee pot with an orange lid. He knew that the color difference signaled something to the staff and it made more sense that black was regular and orange was decaf.

  Widow watched the barista bring the check and the guy paid and left. He left the paper behind. Widow thought about moving over to that side and picking up the paper, but he had seen enough. There was a lot of politics on the front. There was also a lot of politics on the front of newspapers ten years ago and twenty and fifty year ago. At the moment, Widow had had his fill of current affairs.

  The politics never changed anyway. The details changed. The world changed, yet remained the same. Someone, somewhere, had done something bad and was met with a bullet. The world moved on.

  In the US, one side was pissed off at the other and Congress was gridlocked.

  Same old story.

  Widow paid for his check and grimaced at the cash he had left over. He looked up at a wall clock. It was time to call his bank.

  He returned to the train station, to outside the public restroom doors. There was a wall payphone, which was a metal box fused to the bottom of a plastic case and phone. He picked up the receiver and dug in his pocket for a quarter. The coin slid into the belly of the phone and he got a dial tone. He dialed the number from memory and waited.

  A voice answered. At the same time he heard the quarter being swallowed farther into the metal box at the bottom.

  The voice said, “Wells Fargo. Where can I send you?”

  Widow cleared his throat, a fast action, and said, “Wells Fargo?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s not right.”

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “I mean that’s not my bank.”

  “Recently, Wells Fargo bought out a competitor. Maybe that was your bank. What is your bank, sir?”

  Widow thought about his small-town bank that he had kept all of those years while he was in the service. He almost chuckled when she had used the word competitor because his bank wasn’t a competitor. It had maybe three or four locations in Mississippi. Wells Fargo was a Wall Street giant. Hell, it was a damn institution. It wasn’t worried about his small bank as a competitor.

  He told her the name of his bank and she said, “Oh sorry, sir. That bank still exists. It’s right around the corner. You must’ve dialed t
he wrong number. They all start the same here. Let me get you the right one.”

  She wanted to get him the number, like dialing information on the phone.

  The hospitality state, he thought.

  He said, “No thanks. That’s not necessary. It’s on my bank card. Sorry for bothering you.”

  “That’s okay, sir. You have a wonderful day.”

  She hung up the phone.

  Widow heard a new dial tone and dug back down in his pocket and came out with his last quarter. He kept it in his palm and dug into his back pocket, sifted around until he felt his bank card. He pulled it out, pinched between his index and middle fingers. He glanced at the faded front side and flipped it, stared at the back. The number he had dialed was wrong.

  That’s new, he thought. Widow had always had a pretty good memory. He chalked it up to getting older and dialed the right number.

  The same quarter clinking sounds ran through the phone box followed by a ring and a voice.

  This time the voice was a man’s, but the opening dialogue was the same. A polite hello and a How can I help?

  Widow said, “My bank card is telling me that my account is empty. I don’t understand why.”

  “Okay, hang on, sir.”

  Widow had no choice. The guy didn’t wait for a response. He just started the line transfer process. Then a woman’s voice came on this time. She said, “Accounts. This is Karen.”

  “Hey, Karen. I’m calling from Montana. I have a problem.”

  She interrupted and said, “No problem, sir. How can I help?”

  “I have a checking account there and my bank card is telling me there’s no money in the account?”

  “Let’s see. Tell me your account number?”

  Widow went through all the numbers and security checks that she requested, which was actually one reason why he kept this bank. In his opinion, smaller banks were more secure than large ones. Small banks may not have as big budgets as huge Wall Street banks, but they were normally current on their security measures and computers. Plus, small banks weren’t targets like big banks were. Big banks were well known and therefore targets for hackers.

  Small banks were easier to rob at gunpoint, but his money was insured.

  The woman said, “Okay, Mr. Widow. That’s a pretty cool name.”

  Widow said nothing.

  She said, “Oh dear. I’m sorry, sir, but it looks like your account is empty.”

  “I don’t understand? Why? I had plenty of money in it.”

  “Hang on. Let me check out your transactions,” she said. Widow heard her breathing steadily and then typing away on a keyboard. He could visualize her studying the screen.

  She said, “Okay. I see you’re in Eureka, Montana?”

  “Right.”

  “I see you used your card at a gas station on Highway 93?”

  “Right.”

  She clicked a couple of buttons that Widow presumed to be mouse clicks. And she said, “Hmm. It seems that you had a wire transfer for a large amount. Looks like it was last night at midnight.”

  “What?”

  “The wire transfer was at midnight.”

  “How can someone request a wire transfer at midnight?”

  She said, “It wasn’t requested at midnight. It happened at midnight.”

  Widow closed his eyes. At midnight, he was walking on Highway 93, just south of Gibsonville, when he had stopped and offered to cover the gas for the young sailor. The guy accepted Widow’s offer to pay for gas, which was normally not the case. But Widow was glad to chip in and they were both men of uniform.

  Widow asked, “I used my bank card at midnight. At a gas station. Does your computer show you that?”

  The sound of fingers on keys sounded through the phone again, but not typing. It was more like she was resting them on the keys or patting the keys, like a habit. She said, “I see that, Mr. Widow. Yes. You paid at a pump and…That’s strange.”

  “What?”

  “Just that, the transfer happened at the exact moment.”

  “Same moment? You can see the exact time?”

  “Not the exact second, but down to the minute. You bought gas with your card at 12:03 and the transfer was right then. Same time. Which is weird because the bank doesn’t handle transfers after hours. Not unless it’s specially arranged.”

  Widow set his eyes on the phone for a moment and then looked back over his shoulder at the sound of a train horn, growing louder in the distance.

  “Listen, I didn’t permit a wire transfer. Can you have someone get to the bottom of this?”

  “Of course, sir. Let me transfer you to our security division.”

  Widow said, “Wait! I can’t do this now. Can you just arrange it and I’ll call back?”

  The train horn blared on and the tracks whined and sung as the brakes started the slow process of stopping.

  The woman on the other line stayed quiet.

  Widow said, “I’m on a payphone.”

  “Okay, sir. I can start this for you, but you’ll need to call back. The investigator will need to speak to you.”

  “Got it.”

  Just then, the operator came on with a minute warning, instructing Widow that another quarter was needed to speak longer.

  “Have a good day, Mr. Widow,” the woman on the other line said and clicked off the phone.

  Widow hung up and stepped away. The train had howled to a complete stop. Exhaust and smoke sounded out from underneath the wheels and undercarriage of the first car. Widow hadn’t been on a train in recent memory. He’d used it in Europe many times, traveling around, sometimes doing the tourist thing and sometimes on assignment.

  He stepped out the doors and looked over the passengers getting off and getting on. Only a few people got off and everyone who had been waiting had boarded within minutes. Fast process when the crowd wasn’t that large.

  The image of a conductor coming down, out of the first car, and standing out front of the train and yelling “All aboard,” over and over came to mind. He thought of old movies where they did that, back during the mid-twentieth century, during the World War II.

  He imagined American soldiers getting shipped off to be deployed from their local bases. He imagined the young, new wives they left behind. He imagined a loving embrace and a fervent goodbye, sharing tears.

  Casey Sossaman wasn’t in the line to board the train. Widow’s eyes scanned the windows on his side. There was no sign of him there either.

  Widow walked past the train and toward the parking lot. The 1979 red Ford pickup was gone, replaced by an empty space with tire tracks and settling dust left behind.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE BURGER JOINT on the corner of Berry Street and 5th Avenue looked inviting and Widow felt some potent hunger pains from the deep part of his stomach, but he stared down at the cash that he had left, not much.

  The best thing to do was to find a place to hole up for a while that didn’t cost a lot of money. He passed the burger place and stepped over to the opposite sidewalk.

  He walked on until he saw a storefront window of a bar, closed during the daytime.

  A sign was stuck in the corner, down low, under a neon beer advertisement that was shut off. It read: Help Wanted, which made Widow think about the possibility that the mistake with his account might take a while to fix. What if it took days? He’d need to find a way to compensate.

  It had been a couple of years since he’d worked for money, even longer since he had to fill out an application or interview or complete a W9. Where would he even start? Even if he made it through the hiring process, how would he make money in time? It wasn’t like he could wait the traditional two weeks for a paycheck.

  The whole prospect made him feel a little nauseous and uncomfortable. He figured the best kind of work for his situation would be transient or bar work, where he could make tips. Cash in pocket was exactly what he would need. He supposed he could wait and come back when the bar opened and ask if they nee
ded someone to sweep floors, take out trash, or even work the door as a bouncer, any of which he would be suited for.

  Widow walked away from the bar and then he thought about the flyer he had seen back at the gas station. It was for the Sossaman ranch. They needed help there. He wondered if he could get to the ranch and offer his services. The mother might be inclined to accept, since he had already interacted with Casey.

  On the next street, by chance, only not chance because Eureka was too damn small for a chance sighting, Widow saw Hogan getting out of his police cruiser, using his left hand on the roof, pulling himself out.

  Widow waited until Hogan was completely out and was looking in his direction. Hogan looked across his car at the street, which Widow knew he would do. Good cops always survey their surroundings.

  Hogan looked left, looked right and made eye contact with Widow. He paused.

  Widow nodded at him and started to walk over. He froze at the edge of the curb to some kind of warning in the back of his mind about jaywalking in front of a cop that he wasn’t so sure liked him to begin with. Widow shook it off and crossed over.

  Hogan closed the door to the cruiser and rested his left palm on the trunk lid, right hand on his side. It wasn’t resting on his nightstick, like earlier in the morning, but it wasn’t that far from it either.

  He said, “Hey. Still here, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You gonna stay?”

  “Right now I don’t have a choice.”

  Hogan’s eyebrows furrowed and unfurrowed in an act that Widow suspected was intentional, and he asked, “Why not? You like it here?”

  “I like it. But that’s not why. I’ve got a dilemma.”

  “What kind?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a legal thing. It’s a financial thing.”

  But Hogan didn’t accept that as a final answer. So, he asked, “What kind of financial thing?”

  “The not-to-worry-about kind,” Widow said, which was more out of instinct than anything else. He wasn’t used to giving away private information so freely, even to a cop. But he also didn’t wait for Hogan to form a response. He said, “It’s a banking problem. They made a mistake. It’ll get sorted out, I’m sure. But in the meantime, I’ll need to find a place to stay the night and earn some cash. Just in case.”