Tellings of the Time: Complete series

5. 5

“Get your ass down here, Abs!”

There’s only one person who that can be. I’m sitting in my office on the fifteenth floor of the Wells Fargo Center in downtown Portland the day after we got the photos. I have my own office, which is situated a whole three steps higher than the rest of the floor, but Chester likes to joke I look down on the worker bees up from my ivory tower.

Three. Fucking. Steps.

So when he tells me to get my ass down there, he means I should get out of my office and walk over to his desk. A desk that has six screens that take up more space than my whole office has, I’d like to add. I’ve offered him my office space before, but every time I try he declines me, saying he wants to stay humble.

I put away the administration I’ve been going through and walk over to where my friend is frantically clicking on his mouse. He has this weird look in his eyes, that’s either from lack of caffeine, sleep deprivation because of too much caffeine or some discovery that made his adrenaline spike. Based on my sudden urge to go to him, I’d say he’s found something.

“What’s up?” I ask when I sit myself down on the edge of his desk. There are tons of little knick-knacks on his desk that seem to be scattered all around in total chaos, but to Chester this is complete order. We have cleaners coming over twice a week, who are under strict instructions never to touch Chester’s desk.

We’ve learned the hard way what happens when they accidentally do try to tidy the damn thing up. He cleans it up himself, he’s not a dirty person, it’s only very messy. He just likes it to be his kind of messy. There’s a little Kurt Cobain Funko doll that is almost holy to him that doesn’t ever move out of its spot.

“I’ve found the kids,” he says, clicking on his mouse again and pointing at his screen.

I jump up from the desk, my heart rate spiking, looking at what he’s pointing to. It’s a grainy image of four kids being led out of a van into a building.

“Why are we still sitting here? Let’s go get them!”

“Oh, no, wait. I found the kids, but they’re gone again. Sorry, should’ve led with that. I’m so far down the digital rabbit hole I’m unsure of the idea of social strategism. Right now I’m only seventy percent sure we’re actually having this conversation. We could be in The Matrix. What day is today? I haven’t slept since Tuesday.”

I let myself fall back down on the edge of the desk again. Fuck. I scowl as I try my best to hide my disappointment, but fail. I grab an open can of energy drink from Chester’s desk and hand it to him. I know he’s going to crash soon, but he needs to tell me before that happens. It’s not like the tiny bit of extra caffeine is really going to do anything at this point.

“Start from the beginning,” I command him.

“The start meaning from my point of view or the version you understand?” he asks, chugging half of the drink.

“Just talk regular people’s talk, Ches,” I sigh. He can get carried away whenever he talks about his technology, in which case he’s no longer able to tell when I can follow what he’s telling and when he’s lost me. He’s usually pretty good at reading the room, but on certain occasions just like this, the brilliance of his mind starts leading and he gets carried away.

“Well, I started at the assumption the kids didn’t leave through the woods. I’d already checked if they were being transported in any regular cars using facial recognition and all the traffic cams in the area. I’ve run that a few extra times, but still came up empty. Then I used the same images from the security cams to start mapping all the vans going out of the area between the time the neighbor went onto the dark web and the time we went on our mission to retrieve them.”

He stops his rambling to take the last few sips of his energy drink. I don’t think he’s taken a breath in the whole first part of that monologue.

“I found three hundred and twenty-four vans in the general vicinity of the house in that timeframe. I started following them one by one until I could see who got out and then checked out what they’re up to. I think I’ve unmasked three drug dealers by the way. They all drive in vans that claim to deliver sandwiches. Anyway, when I checked the two hundred and forty-fifth, I found these images. Then I hacked into the building’s cameras, only to find out that the cameras were taken out for two hours yesterday. I imagine that’s the time the kids were taken out of the building. It’s empty now, according to the live feed that’s coming from it.”

He takes in another deep breath and starts spinning his thumb ring with his middle finger. I stare at his screen. One of the kids is covered by what seems to be a dirty blanket as she looks to the ground. My heart breaks for her. She shouldn’t be there. She should be at home, surrounded by the people that love her, having fun. Not in the back of a van, being hauled around town by men who want to sell her for God knows what. And we were just too fucking late. They were transported again just yesterday? Fuck. We should’ve gotten to them sooner.

Chester looks at me with red-rimmed sad eyes. He can probably read exactly what’s going on in my mind from my face.

“At least we know they’re alive,” he says with a small voice.

I nod, suddenly numb. All my mind can think of is to add ‘for now’ to that sentence.

“I can go back on the dark web. Somebody is going to try to sell them again. All this trouble they’re going through means they have to make some money off of them.”

He tries to go back to his keyboard to start to work again but I hold him back, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Give this information to your staff, Ches. Let them do what they’re being paid for. You need to sleep. You’re useless to me in this state.” I add that last bit because I know it’s the only part of my argument he’ll actually listen to. He gives me a glare, but also nods.

“Miranda,” I say to the redhead that’s manning the front desk. “Make sure Ches here tells his team what they’re doing today and then have a car take him home please.”

“Sure thing, Miss Wilder,” she says. Miranda has been with us for a few years. She’s the little bit of humanity that we need around here. With my team of trained private investigators who go out into the field with me and a bunch of hackers who think in binary code, we need someone who’s just human.

That’s Miranda.

She’s older than most of the people who work for FIX Foundation, but she doesn’t take any bullshit and she keeps everyone happy. Even Chester listens to her. She’s like the Mary Poppins of us agents and nerds.

I spin Chester’s desk chair so that he’s facing me. “Good work, Ches. You found them.”

He grumbles, already starting to crash now that he knows he’ll be delegating and has to stop doing everything himself. He manages to give me a half smile though, taking the credit I’m giving him. We’d be utterly lost without him, and I need to remember to tell him that every once in a while. As he’s rounding up his team, I climb back up to my ivory tower.

My phone rings and I startle, making me look up from. I’m not expecting any calls and the people who usually call me are at the office. It’s an unknown number, and this whole ordeal with the serial killer has me on edge. I answer the call anyway, my heart pounding loudly in my chest.

“Hello?”

“Abby?” I hear a warm male voice say. It’s familiar. “This is Remington Ashburn, Remy. Is this a good time to be calling?”

That’s right, Chester was going to give him my number. My surprise box made me forget all about that.

“Sure, I can make some time. What’s up?” I hang back in my chair, riding it back a little, and plant my feet on the edge of my desk.

“Wanted to thank you for letting Chester give me your number. He was defending your privacy like a true knight.”

I chuckle. “Sounds like Ches. He only brought it up yesterday when I asked about it. It’s not like I’ve been knowingly withholding my number from you.” My finger twirls around a strand of hair. “Besides, I feel like I should be the one thanking you. I heard you’re keeping my employees paid for a while. Thanks.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about that. You’re doing admirable work. You shouldn’t have to beg to keep going.”

I have to remind myself to ask Chester how large that donation actually was. Remy is making it sound like it’s nothing, while Chester made it sound like a big deal. I need to know which one it is.

“I’m not opposed to having to beg fewer rich old men for their money.”

Remy chuckles. “I hope you don’t have me filed away in that category.”

“Well, you did fall for my sales talk, didn’t you? I got you to make a donation.” I find myself smiling. I like teasing him a little.

“Auch, I fell for the old dude’s pitch? My ego is hurt.”

“At least you got a dance out of it, most old men get exactly nothing out of it.”

I shudder a little when I imagine dancing with all the people who donate to FIX Foundation. Dancing with Remy was something special, but I’m fairly certain that it would’ve been less fun with any of the others. Especially Diederik Plavel, that old bastard got handsy without any dancing involved.

“I’m hoping to get a little something extra out of it…” Remy says. I push my chair away from my desk with my feet and stand up. I walk to the window in my office and start pacing in front of it.

“And what might that be?”

“A date,” he says, making my heart skip a little even if I already knew he was going to ask me out. “I’d like to take you out on a date.”

“And what would we be doing on this date?” I ask, making him wait on my answer a little even if I already know what it’s going to be. I squeeze the phone between my head and shoulder and tidy up some documents I’ve found while pacing around.

“That’ll be a surprise,” he says conspiratorially.

Fuck, I hate surprises. I like to be well prepared. In my line of work everything comes down to being well prepared. Yes, there are a lot of situations in which you have no clue what’ll happen. The trick is to be prepared for everything, so that when whatever happens you’ll be able to handle it.

“I’ll go on a date with you on one condition,” I say, mimicking his stipulation to donate on the night of the ball.

“Which is?”

“I need to know if I’ll be required to wear a fancy dress, because if I can be absolutely honest with you, I own a grand total of two fancy dresses and you’ve seen one of them already. I need to keep one in store for the next time I’ll have to come beg you for money.”

He starts laughing. “No fancy dress requirements. Just wear whatever you’re comfortable in.”

“Okay.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes.”

I find myself back in my chair, spinning round and round, grinning like a mad woman. The fuck is happening to me? I’m not this girl. I make myself stop and focus on the conversation again.

“So when is this elusive date happening?”

“Does Saturday afternoon work for you?” he asks. An afternoon date? That’s weird. I don’t think I’ve ever been on an afternoon date. Saturday is only two days away, but it works.

“Sure, what time?”

“I can have a driver come pick you up around two?”

“A driver?” I don’t exactly need to be picked up; I actually prefer to drive myself. That way I can leave whenever the hell I want to. Which wouldn’t be the first time during a date. But having a driver pick me up is just weird.

“It’s not some entitled rich guy thing, I swear, it’s just… part of the date.”

I wrinkle my nose, I’m not so sure about handing out my address and then getting into a car with someone I don’t know. I’ve seen too much. “Does this part of the date work if I drive myself instead?”

“Sure,” he says and I can hear him smile through the phone, “I’ll text you the address.”

“Well, that’s settled then. It’s a date.”

“It is.”

I’m smirking like a freak again. He promises to send me the address again and we say our goodbyes.

Not even three minutes later my phone rings again, an unknown number calling me. I haven’t saved Remy’s number yet, so it’s still coming up as a series of numbers.

“Did you change your mind already?” I say as I pick up.

“What?” an unknown male voice answers. Another unknown man’s voice. Not Remy. I feel my temperature rise. One phone call with a cute guy and I’ve lost all my professionalism.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I thought someone else was calling. Who’s this?”

“This is Special Agent Sanders from the FBI. Am I speaking to Abigail Wilder?” His voice is warm and deep, but doesn’t sound all that friendly. I’m making up what I think about him based on the two sentences he’s said so far.

“Yes, that’s me. Please call me Abby.”

“I’ve been informed you are the one who found the body in the basement on Cyncopina Road and you’ve been sent evidence. I’d like to set up a meeting to go over some stuff with you. Would that work for you?”

The brisk tone of his voice leaves me with the impression that he mostly wants information from me, but does not expect me to be any part of this investigation whatsoever.

Two days ago, I’d have been more than willing to keep my hands off of this whole affair, but after having a box full of photos of the victims sent to my personal address, we’ve passed the point of no return. This is personal now, and I’m involved.

So yes, I’m absolutely meeting him to go over some stuff. Little does he know, I’m intending to use him just as much as he’s willing to use me.

“Sure, I can free up my morning tomorrow. Does ten work for you?”

“Ten is good. Where do you want to meet?”

“Can you come over to the FIX Foundation headquarters? It’s at the Wells Fargo Center in Downtown Portland.”

I prefer to see him here, where I can show him we’re a legitimate organization instead of dealing with the prejudices he’s bound to have about FIX. Now, I see the irony in that, as I’m prejudiced against him all the same, but I haven’t been wrong about it so far.

“Sure, we’ll be there at ten. Thank you for your time and we’ll meet tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see you then.”

He disconnects the line, and I give Miranda a quick call asking her to clear my schedule tomorrow morning. I don’t think there’s anything on there, but she likes doing it for me anyway. Perhaps we should tidy up a little around here anyway, as we’ll be having a team of FBI agents coming over tomorrow.

Suddenly a thought hits me. Why exactly is the fucking FBI getting involved? I grab my phone and call Chester. Please let it just be regular protocol. I know nothing about protocol with serial killers, but I hope this is normal and there isn’t anything that came up with this case. Why would the FBI would feel like they need to take over? Is this a known serial killer or something?

“Hm?” he sleepily answers after three rings.

“What is the exact reason that the FBI is getting involved?” I ask him, foregoing any introductions.

“Standard FBI profiling team coming in,” he answers. “DNA matches are starting to come in on the victims. Not all are in yet, but at least one is from out of state, so FBI involvement is standard. Also, remind me to kick the pigeon. Fucking flying rodent deserves to get a proper ass whooping for stealing my Metallica shirt. Didn’t even fit him.”

“The fuck, Ches?”

“Hm, guessing the pigeon part was related to a dream. Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Yeah, kick the pigeon for me will you, he sounds like a royal asshole.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye. I sit back in my chair in a daze. So the results are coming back in? My resolve to not ask Chester anything about what he’s illegally obtaining information-wise is starting to dissolve.

Who were these women before they got reduced to nameless victims buried beneath a house? They have to have names, have to have been loved by someone. Missed by them. They had hopes, dreams and plans for a future, even if it was to just go through life without accomplishing anything significant. Maybe one of them had a cat that”s now in a pound somewhere because its owner never came home.

I always hate how the world focuses on the killer, instead of the victims. Like they’re diminished to just that now that they’re killed. But they were people, real people, with real lives. And I want to get to know them, so I can make the bastard who did this to them pay. Not only because he deserves to be punished but also because they deserve to be avenged.

I sigh, letting my head hang down. It’s one of those things that manages to make me feel tiny. You know, when you look at the ocean and you realize just how tiny you are? Or when you stare up in the sky, looking at the stars, knowing just how incredibly insignificant you are in the grand scheme of things? These women, these victims, make me feel like the work I’m doing is ultimately insignificant. No matter how many kids I manage to save, there will always be dozens of faceless and nameless victims I won’t be able to help.

It is never enough; I am never enough.

Funny enough, it’s usually Chester who’d be able to get me out of these kinds of funks. He’d be able to say something I don’t understand, doing the math on how I am making a difference. And I can always rely on his numbers to be true.

It”s the third time that day my phone manages to startle me. I look at the caller ID, and see it’s my aunt Viv. I answer immediately. It’s not every day she calls me, she always makes me feel better with her calls.

“Hey Viv,” I say cheerfully.

“Heya kiddo, watcha doing?”

I don”t tell her the details of my work, not wanting to interfere with ongoing investigations. And I don’t tell her afterwards, because she doesn’t handle hearing about what I do very well. It’s okay. We’ve reached an understanding.

“Just some work stuff,” I say, deliberately keeping it vague. “What are you up to?”

“I’m hiding in the pantry, eating a chocolate bar. Peter is in the garden with the boys, and I just needed a moment for myself. And not share my chocolate for once.”

Now that she’s said it, I can hear her munching away. Aunt Vivian is my mother’s sister. After my parents died, she became my legal guardian. She was twenty-four, just married to a handsome millionaire and didn’t have a clue what to do with a grieving twelve-year old. Which isn’t all that weird if you think about it. I’d not only lost my parents, she’d also just lost her sister.

She took me in with all the best intentions and love, but didn’t have much to offer besides that. So she did the best thing she could think of: she sent me to the best boarding school she could find, and forced me to always talk to a therapist. I think the only reason we still have a semi-decent bond is because she chose this course of action. If we would’ve figured it out ourselves, one of us would’ve driven the other mad. I wouldn’t know who to put my money on to be honest.

She now has three kids of her own, and she’s the best mom I can think of. But they’re a handful and she’s always busy with them. Frankly, raising three young kids sounds like a nightmare, even more than a pigeon stealing my Metallica shirt.

“Got some wine in the pantry so you can really treat yourself?” I ask.

“Of course not, wine would be in the wine cellar, dear. I’m just sipping from the cooking alcohol.”

I snort. “I so wanna be you when I grow up.”

She chuckles. “Don’t lie to me, you’d be bored to death if you were me.”

That would probably be true. Aunt Viv doesn’t have a bad bone in her body, she’s always been the good kid.

Me? I take after my mother. The rebel who gave her parents gray hairs before their age. My mom was a punk rocker. She hitchhiked through the country, was a fierce demonstrator for whatever rights she felt needed to be defended and couldn’t stick to a plan if her life depended on it. She married my father after three months of being together, had me after a year and never looked back for even a second. I like to think I inherited her free spirit.

“Not bored to death,” I answer, “just severely understimulated.”

“Up to the point where you’d stop living?”

“Uhuh.”

“That’s just a fancy way of saying you’d be bored to death, Abigail.”

“Yeah, it is.”

It’s silent for a bit, until I hear a candy wrapper being opened. “Mars?” I ask.

“Tootsie roll,” she says, clearly stuffing her mouth. “So, when are you coming to visit your favorite aunt and her darling kids?”

I sigh. “Not for a while I’m afraid. There’s some stuff going on that I’d like to see resolved first before I come visit. I don’t want to bring it to your doorstep.”

It’s very quiet.

“That bad?”

“Yeah, worse than I’ve ever seen.”

The silence is almost touchable. “You take care of yourself, okay hunny?”

“Always.”

I hear her take a big chug of something and then can audibly hear her shudder. “Oh that’s gross. Anyway, tell me about boys. I need to hear some stuff about grown-up boys that don’t need their mamas every other second. I’ve had enough of those.”

I take a sip of my now cold coffee and wrinkle my nose. Is this the same cup I poured myself when I came in this morning? “I’m going out with someone on Saturday. It’s a surprise date.” I can’t keep the annoyance out of my voice.

Aunt Viv scoffs. “Bet that’s going over wonderfully. How’d you meet him?”

Before I know it, I’m telling her all about the mayor’s ball, the dance and the phone call from this afternoon. Aunt Viv is the perfect audience, oohing and aahing at all the right moments. Before my parents died, she was like a big sister to me, the age gap between her and my mother being big. That part of our relationship luckily never changed. After I’ve told her everything there is to know, and she starts to sound kind of buzzed, we end our call and I’m left feeling a lot lighter. There’s still enough going on, but right now, all seems to be right in the world and I decide to focus on that.