Grey Areas 3: The Wrong Side of Right

GREY AREAS 3:

THE WRONG SIDE OF RIGHT

BY BRAD CARL

Copyright © 2015 Brad Carl

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Cover art adaptation by Matt Downing Photography

Copy editing by Free Range Editorial

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

Thank you thank you thank you for buying this book! Please don’t forget to leave a review when you have finished reading it. Reviews are a vital piece to my long term success as an independent author. And remember - the final book in the Grey Areas saga is coming soon!

Thank you so much for supporting my work.

—Brad

To my wife, Kristi, and daughter, Presley, for having the patience and understanding…

I

What the hell are you doing? Barrett shouted across the restaurant.

Calling your bluff! Randy hollered back. He ended the exclamation with what almost sounded like a question mark. Barrett watched Randy closely as he held the gun in the air like an Old West outlaw who was staring down his nemesis.

The restaurant was full of gasps, tears, and shrieks. Barrett remained frozen near the exit.

Shut up! Randy screamed, shaking his head back and forth like a father who had reached his limit with his children. Not a peep! No one move!

Barrett wondered if he was speaking to the people in the building or the voices in his head. He didn’t care enough to stick around to find out, so he made another move for the door. This time, before he was able to push the door open, Barrett heard gunfire and more screams. Turning his head ninety degrees, he witnessed Randy holding the gun out away from his body. A middle-aged woman was on her knees about twenty feet from the big man. She was crying and begging for her life.

Don’t kill me, she said, sobbing. Randy ignored her and refocused his attention across the restaurant on Barrett.

I was aiming for her shin, he explained, but I missed.

Still stunned at Randy’s disregard for drawing outrageous amounts of attention to himself, Barrett did not respond. Instead he glared at the giant Goldilocks. He could see Nora observing the scene as if she were sitting in a theater, watching a play.

Without warning, Randy grabbed a small boy from his seat next to his family. The toddler immediately began to cry. The boy’s mother screamed hysterically and his father stood up and began to make a move towards Randy.

Sit down, Papa Bear, Randy instructed him, poking the gun in the little boy’s ribs He held the child with his left arm, wrapping it around his waist. Do you want to see how far I’ll go?

Randy glanced at the door again, making sure Barrett could see the gun.

Put the kid down, Barrett urged.

Get over here, Randy retorted.

Why? So we can pay the bill before we leave? Put the kid down and let’s go.

It wasn’t ideal. But there hadn’t been much lately that was. Going back to Gable hadn’t even been on Barrett’s radar. The only saving grace he could think of was that he’d have a couple of hundred miles to think about how to work it to his advantage.

Fine, Randy replied. He handed the boy back to his parents, keeping the gun in a defensive position.

The poor kid couldn’t be more than two years old, Barrett thought. Now he might be scarred for life.

Come on, Mom, Randy told the old woman. He pushed her wheelchair away from the table as Nora grabbed the newspaper, never once letting his eyes stray from Barrett. It was hard to believe they had been eating and chatting only moments earlier.

As Randy and Nora approached the front door, Barrett spoke again. "Have you given any thought to how we’re not going to get spotted driving a big yellow school bus through the Midwest? You know, now that you’ve made us stick out like a sore thumb?"

Randy stopped pushing the wheelchair. Without completely turning around, in an effort to keep an eye on Barrett, he strolled back to the father of the boy he had briefly snatched.

Give me your car keys, Randy told him.

What? the man asked.

Jesus Christ, man. Do I have to shoot someone to…?

Randy fired the handgun. The restaurant patrons gasped and screamed again. The kid’s father looked down at the floor.

Sometimes my body gets ahead of my brain, Randy explained. You’re lucky; I missed again. Looks like you were close to having one of your little piggies go to market. Now give me your keys unless you want me to turn your entire foot into a slab of bacon.

The man obeyed and handed Randy his keys. He looked back down at the hole in the floor, next to his left foot.

Here, Randy said. He dangled the bus keys in front of the man’s face. It’s the least I can do. A trade-in.

#

The house was dark with the exception of one dim lamp on an end table. In the reclining chair next to it was Jackson, flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. He held his gun in his right hand. It rested over his heart, making it look like he was pledging allegiance to…something.

After receiving the phone call from Pablo, Jackson had called his wife to check on things. Not wanting to alarm her any more than he already had when he sent her away, he mentioned nothing about the latest events. Even so, Caroline Jackson knew something was going on. This kind of stuff didn’t happen to a small town police officer every day.

When Jackson had told her to pack up and take the kids to her mother’s in Minnesota, he was elusive as to the reason. But his wife hadn’t objected. Within thirty minutes, Mrs. Jackson was on the road with their children.

He thought they were safe. Until now.

What the hell did I do to deserve this? Jackson thought.

Worse yet, what was he going to do now? Killing Chum was one thing. He did what he thought he had to do to protect his family. And Chum was dead any way you sliced it. That’s how Jackson justified it to himself, anyway.

But now DeMarco was gone. She was dead as far as he knew. And these guys already knew where his family was. For this, Jackson could blame no one but himself. He should have been more careful. He could’ve swept the car for a tracking device or made sure they weren’t followed. But he had been so wrapped up in the entire predicament and getting them out of town, he plumb forgot what the protocol should’ve been. Not that he was accustomed to acting like a special agent, but his protective service training in the military had taught him how to do it all. Instead, Jackson had neglected to recall or use any of it.

And now what was going to happen? What were these guys going to try to get him to do next? Whatever it ended up being, how could he not do it? They’d kill Caroline and the kids. He couldn’t go to Chief Perkins. All he’d want to do is call the FBI and DEA. Besides, going to his boss would mean he’d have to tell him what had happened. Everything. It just didn’t seem like a good idea right now. While Jackson wanted all the help he could get to protect his family, he wasn’t ready to confess those sins right now: murder and kidnapping a federal agent, then allowing her to be abducted by the cartel, who did God knows what to her.

No, there wasn’t much more Jackson could do right now other than wait. Wait for further instructions and sink deeper into the muck he hadn’t asked for.

Jackson continued to contemplate his limited options while his brain fired but his body went numb. He felt as if he’d fallen asleep for the night with his eyes open. Before he knew it, the ceiling he’d been staring at for hours was flooded with light from a cold winter sunrise. It was time to go to work.

#

Chase had rented a car after his plane landed in Omaha and driven as far as Adler before settling down at a hotel for the night. Following a continental breakfast the next morning, he checked out and drove another twenty minutes north to Gable.

His original intent was to drive into town and scope things out, inconspicuously. But before he made it there he noticed the police station along the highway. Chase pulled the white sedan into the lot and walked through the door.

Morning, stranger, Chief Perkins called from his desk. What can we do for you?

I’m looking for someone, Chase said.

Okay, Perkins replied, waiting for more information.

My sister, Chase explained.

Your sister, got it, Perkins confirmed. I didn’t catch your name.

Sheehan. Chase Sheehan, Chase stated, moving forward to the man’s desk. Perkins stood up and offered his hand.

I’m Chief Nathan Perkins, he said. And around here somewhere is my lone wolf sergeant. Excuse me a second.

Chase nodded and took a step back. Chief Perkins turned and hollered down the hall towards the restrooms.

Jack! Company!

Jackson appeared from around the corner. Chief Perkins had given him grief when he arrived late for work and looking like he had tied one on the night before.

After the introductions, the conversation continued.

You said you’re looking for your sister, Perkins reiterated.

That’s right, Chase confirmed, reaching into his pocket. I should also mention I’m with the FBI.

He handed his credentials to Perkins, who glanced at them before handing them back. Jackson didn’t seem fazed. He was still in a daze following a sleepless night of spinning wheels and lucid nightmares.

Welcome to Gable, Agent Sheehan, Perkins greeted him more formally. How did your sister go missing?

Well, I didn’t say she was missing, Chase elaborated. I just haven’t been able to reach her, which is kind of strange. She’s supposed to be here in your town.

Sorry about that. I just assumed since you were a fed and— Perkins interrupted himself. What’s her name?

Delia. DeMarco. Delia DeMarco.

Jackson’s heart skipped a beat.

Agent DeMarco? Perkins confirmed. Well, yeah. She’s here. She’s working on the — the Chum — err — Tom Chumansky case. He’s slippery.

Chase nodded. Any idea where she is now? When was the last time you had contact with her?

The chief massaged his chin. As I recall, he began, she arrived late the other day.

The other day? Chase asked. Which ‘other day,’ exactly?

Perkins looked to his sergeant for help.

I didn’t know she was here, Chief, Jackson informed him.

Oh? I guess I didn’t get around to telling you, Perkins said. Yes, that’s it. I apologize for the confusion, Agent Sheehan. She showed up late Saturday and contacted me. Because it was over the weekend, I got sidetracked and never got around to telling anyone else.

How did your conversation with her go? What did she say? Chase asked.

Perkins sat down at his desk as if it would help him recall his phone call with Agent DeMarco. She called me on my cell phone, Perkins elaborated. He picked up his phone from his desk and began scrolling through the history.

It was eight fifteen Saturday night, he said. She said she had come to help with the investigation and that she’d be in touch. She also said she was staying in Adler at the Stone Creek Inn.

Jackson listened but remained silent.

I assume you gave her an update? Chase inquired.

Yes, of course, Perkins agreed.

What did you tell her?

What’s going on here, Agent Sheehan? I feel like I’m being interrogated.

The chief opened his hands on the desk, indicating to Chase he had nothing to hide.

My sister and I are very close. She hasn’t responded to any of my attempts to contact her in over twenty-four hours. That never happens.

I see, Perkins said. Well, I think I’ve told you everything I know. But we’re here to help. I’m sure she’s around here somewhere. Maybe in the middle of some surveillance?

Maybe, Chase said. But it’s highly unusual that she hasn’t even returned a text message.

There are a lot of reception gaps out here in rural Iowa, Jackson added. Depending on her service provider and location, it’s possible she hasn’t even received your messages yet.

Chase thought about this.

That’s always a possibility, Chief Perkins agreed. But we still want to help. We’ll figure this out together, Agent.

"So what is the latest in the ongoing investigation? What did you tell her?" Chase asked.

Well, there wasn’t much to tell, Perkins said. We follow Chumansky wherever he goes. Try to follow his pal Eddie Clark, too.

Jackson jumped into the conversation. Mostly he goes to his stores and new home in Adler and his ex-wife’s house here in Gable. He hasn’t done much else for weeks.

Why aren’t you watching him now? Chase asked them.

The two uniformed men looked at each other.

Office Hodge should be on that right now, Jackson told them.

Does he know Delia is here?

Perkins reacted with a puzzled look. I guess not, he said. I mean, unless she happened to run into him. He has met her before, so it’s possible.

So no one has seen my sister?

I guess not, Perkins said. I’m sorry. I’m sure she’s here somewhere. I know how determined she was to catch Chumansky in the act of…doing something.

Chase took what seemed like his first breath of the conversation before speaking again. Would you mind getting the Stone Creek Inn on the phone? I’d like to find out if she checked in.

After confirming that Delia had, indeed, checked in to the Stone Creek Inn around nine o’clock Saturday evening, Chase decided it would be best to drive back to Adler and begin his search there. Retracing Delia’s steps made the most sense. Since they were both federal agents, it was easy for Chase to do this. But being twins brought an extra edge of understanding that was impossible to explain to people. There was a shared sixth sense between the pair, something that ran so deep they rarely felt the need to talk about it because they just knew.

Chase thanked Perkins and Jackson for their help. The men exchanged phone numbers and agreed to inform each other if they heard from Delia. As Chase drove away from the station, Perkins received a phone call. Jackson watched the departing car through the window, shaking his head.

#

What’s been going on lately? Dr. Hammond asked Claire. How have you been feeling?

Still crazy, Claire admitted. She was already lying flat on her back in the recliner.

You’re not crazy, Hammond assured Claire as she wrote something in her notebook.

Okay. Define ‘crazy’ for me.

The psychologist paused. Let’s look it up in the dictionary, she suggested. Dr. Hammond pulled her laptop closer and typed quickly on the keyboard. Google is your friend, she quipped. Claire continued to stare at the ceiling as she always did during these therapy sessions. The dictionary defines the word ‘crazy’ as mentally deranged, impractical, and completely unsound. Is that you?

Claire didn’t answer

Are you mentally deranged? Hammond asked.

Define ‘mentally deranged,’ Claire requested.

Hammond typed some more on the keyboard. ‘Derange’ means to upset the normal condition or functioning of something or someone.

There, Claire said. That’s me. I’m crazy.

Um, no. That just means you’re out of sorts.

Whatever. I’m pretty screwed up right now.

The term ‘derange’ often gets used negatively, but when you look at the word you can see it’s derived from the word ‘de-arrange,’ Dr. Hammond explained. You want to tell me why you’re feeling this way?

Claire thought about this before replying. I can try.

I’m all ears, Hammond said, pushing her laptop away and returning to her pen and notebook.

This is all in confidence, right? Claire asked. She considered sitting