20. SOPHIA
20
SOPHIA
I hear the sound of the buckshot as it whizzes by my ear.
It takes me a second to realize I haven’t been shot.
As I spin around, I see a man in a suit crumple to the ground beside a small utility shed, a large automatic falling from his hand.
“Lucky I was still carrying this,” the old man said, nodding towards the shotgun.
“Who the hell is that?” I ask, my ears still ringing from the blast.
Ethan rushes over to the man, feeling for a pulse in his neck, then uses his boot to roll him over.
He reaches into the man’s pocket and draws out a bulky wallet.
Flipping it open, I can see that even from a distance, it contains some sort of badge.
“FBI,” Ethan announces, studying the credentials before dropping the wallet on top of the body.
“I guess we owe you our gratitude, Mr. Kramer.”
“It was nothing. Just glad you two are safe.”
“Is he really FBI?” I ask, suddenly concerned with the implications. Shooting a law enforcement agent, a Fed at that, puts this on a whole other level.
“Badge looks legit,” Ethan says.
“Chances are, he’s the real deal, but I don’t think this was an official visit. Probably a rogue agent.” He looks around, trying to make sure this guy doesn’t have a partner.
“He’s a single, and these guys travel in pairs.”
“I don’t understand.” I’m near tears and confused as to what’s going on.
“I told you, these people are powerful like you couldn’t possibly comprehend. Politicians, FBI agents, celebrities, you name it, these people have access. Guys like Whitmore, they have a list of contacts they can call upon to do whatever’s needed.”
“So we can’t trust the police?”
“We have to be careful. We show up at a police station, lawyers in tow; we’re probably safe, but we’re not going anywhere with some rando who claims to be a cop or an FBI agent.”
“What are we going to do? It’s not like an FBI agent can just disappear and no one asks a question,” I tell him, bordering on hysteria.
“Calm down. We’ll be fine.” He draws me into an embrace.
“If this guy is operating off the reservation, the bureau isn’t going to advertise it. It’s better if he just disappears. That way they don’t have to take the PR hit.”
He sighs and looks at Mr. Kramer.
“Can you think of a place we can dispose of this guy?”
“Oh, yeah,” the old man chuckles. “This isn’t the first unwanted guy to come poking around where he doesn’t belong. My granddaddy used to run moonshine back in the day. Eventually the Feds got the idea that it’s better just to leave us country folks alone.”
“Come on inside and get something to eat.”
I don’t think I’ll be able to eat. It’s all I can do not to throw up.
I keep hoping this nightmare will end.
Walking into a mid-century brick ranch home, I smell bacon frying, and some of my appetite returns.
The place is homey, about what you’d expect for an older couple living out their golden years.
The place clearly hadn’t been remodeled since the 1980s, with well-worn but comfortable furnishings and old pictures of the kids at various ages decorating the walls.
Mrs. Kramer was polite but didn’t say much. Her husband exerted a commanding presence, so she was probably used to being more or less a silent partner in their marriage.
“Lucky you ended up here,” Kramer said, digging into the pancakes his wife had set on the table.
“That fella out there was definitely persistent.”
“I appreciate your watching out for us,” Ethan said. “I haven’t seen this much action since Afghanistan.”
“In the service were you?” the older man asked with his mouth full.
“Yes, Navy SEALs, actually.”
“Well, I’ll be darned. I was in the army myself. Four years, and then I met Betsy here. Been married forty-two years.”
“Congratulations.”
“You’re welcome to stay in the barn if you’d like,” he offers, “but I’m sure you’d rather be moving on. Never know who else might be onto you.”
“I’m hoping this won’t take much longer. We’d both like to get back to life as normal,” I say.
“I hate to be a pessimist, young lady, but I don’t think your life will ever be back to normal.”
After enjoying a long, hot shower and Ethan re-bandaging his leg, courtesy of the Kramers, we head out.
Mr. Kramer said he’d take care of the body of the dead agent.
He didn’t specify exactly what he meant, but I suspect the Bobcat front loader parked in the back pasture would have something to do with it.
Not having a working radio in the car Ethan had purchased, we were relying on our phones for news.
While there were several threads going on, none of the news agencies were putting things together.
Yiva was doing her part to get them there, but like most stories, the various mainstream media sources were all building their own narratives independently of each other and none were connecting the dots.
That was important since it was what was going to allow us to return home.
Harrison Whitmore is ensnared in a serious investigation into his activities, but as of yet has not been taken into custody.
No mention has been made of his connection to Lena Gardner, but I have a feeling police are involved in looking into that angle.
Ethan’s friend Graham has been feeding them information.
Local news had picked up the story of two men found in the woods south of Wilmington, North Carolina, but it quickly disappeared from the news within hours for unknown reasons.
Whether it was because local authorities didn’t know what had happened—or more likely because they did—or at least suspected it is unclear, but they had not been publicly connected to Whitmore.
If Ethan was right, we won’t have to worry about the death of a lone FBI agent hitting the wires.
We stop at a crowded truck stop in Roanoke to stretch our legs and get some lunch.
Although we’re still a good way from home, it feels good to at least be back in my home state.
I excuse myself to go to the restroom, and when I return, I see Ethan talking to a man roughly the same age as he is with a heavy beard and wire rim glasses.
He looks a little intimidating, but I approach nonetheless.
“Sophia, I’d like you to meet Graham Powers. I got in touch with him while you were in the shower at the Kramer’s place. Agreed to meet him here.”
“Ah, so you’re the lady Ethan has been traipsing about the South with.”
He offers his hand, which I politely shake.
He shoots Ethan a look that I interpreted as man-code for, “man, you really landed a hottie.”
I’m flattered … I guess.
“Like I was telling Ethan, things are moving much too slowly for my satisfaction, so I put together a little package that should be hitting the networks,” he looks down at his watch, “right about now.”
“Graham has been working with Yiva, and they’ve dug up a lot of shit we didn’t even know about. It also turns out my family has been working with Whitmore a lot longer than I was aware. Looks like dear old mom and dad are in for a bit of a reckoning.”
“Look, I gotta split,” Graham says. “Can’t stick around in more than one place for long, but with any luck, most of this serious shit should be over by the weekend. You’ll still have to watch your back, but what are you going to do? Peace out, brother.”
“What if he was followed?” I whisper as Ethan’s friend disappears into the crowd of people.
“What? Graham? You’re kidding, right?” He almost spits out his drink.
“Graham was Force Recon in the Marines. He was into spookier shit than I was. When we went somewhere in Afghanistan or wherever, there was a good chance Force Recon had been there before us. Graham was not followed.”
I want to believe him, but how many times had he implied that we were safe—only to find out later, we weren’t?
Despite Ethan’s assurances, I can’t shake the thought that his friend may have been followed.