Sapphic Voices Mystery

The Ross/Fletcher Case

Conclusion

"No luck here chief." I reported into the cell phone, "Neither of her co-workers has seen or heard from her in a few days. In fact, her boss left a message on her answering machine telling her she's fired."

"But you got a few addresses, right? Tell me you know of at least one place she likes to spend her time." Ian's voice asked.

"Of course." I scoffed and read the names of two bars and an indoor climbing wall from my note pad, "Agent Jefferson and I are on our way to the first right now." As if on cue, Sweetheart turned the car quickly enough to make me grab the car door for support. I glared at him, invoking a proud grin.

"Excellent." Ian replied, "No one else has managed to come up with anything. I'll have someone cover the others."

"Stop here." I instructed Sweetheart and interrupted my conversation with my superior, "We're a block away. If she's there, I don't want to spook her." He nodded and parallel parked the car. "Sorry Ian," I apologized, "Any word on the hand? Do you know anything more about our suspect?"

It was Ian's turn to scoff. "Forensics hasn't even removed the severed hand from the fireplace yet." He whispered under his breath, "They're still coming the place over. I have to stay here until they've finished." He sighed, "Ms. Thomason also remains a mystery. So far we've been able to piece together only what you already know. She's Ruben Fletcher's niece. She refused to answer almost every question asked of her while in custody. She has no prior convictions. The only good piece of news, thanks to picking her up for questioning, is that we have her fingerprints on file."

Sweetheart and I exited the car. "Gotta go boss." I said flatly, "Keep your fingers crossed." I neatly folded the phone in half, disconnecting the open line to Ian, and placed it in my jacket pocket. I then led Sweetheart to the bar.

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"Yeah, I've seen her around." The bartender said, nodding, "She's practically a regular and comes in here almost every Thursday and Saturday night. She sits down there." He pointed toward the end of the bar near a pay phone.

"She just sits there? Does she order anything? Does she talk to anyone?" Agent Jefferson asked.

"She usually didn't talk to anyone." The bartender answered, "She waits by the phone until it rang. Sometimes she's here for a few minutes. Sometimes she's here a few hours. She usually had a draft or two while she waited."

"Does she ever meet anyone here or leave with anyone you recognize?" Agent Jefferson inquired as I walked the length of the bar.

"She met a guy here a last night." The bartender replied, "She seemed upset or nervous."

I sat down in the stool at the end of the bar, the one she occupies each Thursday and Saturday. The wooden bar was slightly warped here. The stool swiveled, but not easily. The pay phone had childish graffiti etched into most of its surfaces. On top of it was a folded piece of paper.

"Any idea why she was nervous?" Agent Jefferson questioned, "What did the guy look like?"

I retrieved the slip of paper. It was slightly weathered and wrinkled. Several smudges that looked like fingers decorated its surface. I turned it over. Something was written in black ink.

"I have no clue why she was freaking out." The bartender went on, "She never talked to me other than to order a beer. As for the guy, he was pretty average. He was maybe as tall as you, had brown hair, and wore a black raincoat."

I read the scribble and my pulse quickened. It was an address. It was a motel address. It was the address and room number where I was staying. I was kidnapped from this address.

"Do you remember anything else?" Agent Jefferson asked calmly. "Anything at all?"

I unfolded the slip of paper. It was an advertisement for rental retail space in an older building. The address was only three blocks away.

"She always seemed to be dusting cobwebs off her jacket." The bartender recounted, "It creeped one of my waitresses out."

"Cobwebs?" Agent Jefferson asked. The bartender didn't have time to clarify the statement.

"Thanks." I said as I made my way for the door, grabbing Agent Jefferson on the way, "You've been a big help. We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

"You'll let me know if there's a reward, right?" The bartender yelled after us as the door shut, "You know where to find me!"

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"This is it." I said, checking the address above the door with the one in bold type on the advertisement. The building was old, brick, and had several windows sealed with plywood. The front door handles were wrapped together in thick, shiny chain that looked new. A large padlock swung slightly from it.

We peered in the front windows but could see nothing. Night had fallen while we were in the bar and it had begun to rain. Shadows played in the street and on the sidewalk as we circled the block.

Sweetheart climbed the loading dock when we reached the rear of the building. He reached for my hand, to help me up, then froze. He motioned for me to turn around. I spun and saw the same van that had sped from the concrete mix yard. It was parked behind a rusted dumpster. I drew my weapon and turned back toward Agent Jefferson. He was moving to the rear entrance. I mounted the rickety ladder on the side of the loading dock and soon joined him.

The loading dock's main entrance was secure. It was a large, aluminum, garage-type door padlocked to the concrete at our feet. However, a smaller door to the right had been forced open recently. The wood frame near the knob was in splinters. I began to reach for it when Sweetheart hissed, "Karen, don't!"

I looked at him scornfully. "She's in there!" I whispered, "If we don't do something she may get away. In fact, she may already know we're here."

"You don't know that." Sweetheart replied, hushed, "Besides, the chief told us to wait for backup when I called to let him in on this place."

"Every second we wait her chances of escape increase." I urged.

"If she knows we're here." He agreed.

"Exactly. Do you really think this slip of paper was an accident?" I asked.

He laughed under his breath. "What I think," He noted, "Is that being kidnapped and your level of personal involvement in this case has made you a little too paranoid."

"And what if I'm right?" I challenged. He stood in silence for a moment. "Call for the locals. The Seattle PD could have a car or three here in a few minutes to back us up. In the meantime, we can enter the building and try to secure her." I pushed the damaged door. It opened with a slight creak.

Sweetheart cursed. "All right," He submitted, "I can see I'm not going to convince you otherwise." He reached into his jacket to retrieve his cell phone.

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I entered the building and moved quickly to the right. Sweetheart went left. The interior of the building wasn't completely dark. Light from nearby street lamps streamed in through the dirty windows. The walls were spotted with oil and streaked by water stains. A rank, musty odor filled the place. My eyes adjusted quickly. My nose did not.

I froze when my foot brushed against something. My motion had caused the object to slide across the floor slightly and made a loud grating noise. I whispered a string of expletives and bent to identify the object. My fingers found the dark metal against the colorless concrete floor. It was long, curved, and undoubtedly the crowbar that had been used to enter the building.

A second later I was blinded by a muzzle flash. My ears began to ring from the impossibly loud sound of a pistol fired indoors at close proximity. Sweetheart screamed. I immediately dove behind a row of boxes for cover.

"So you found me." A familiar voice called through the dark. Two more gunshots followed. Agent Jefferson's voice was gone. I hoped, for a brief moment, he was still alive. Perhaps my ears were ringing too much to hear him. No matter, I had to draw her away from my wounded partner.

I moved around the boxes and strained to identify the origin of the first muzzle flash. I lined my sights near the edge of a likely row of boxes and pulled the trigger twice. I then dove forward, rolled, and emerged behind another row of flimsy cardboard boxes.

"You missed." The voice laughed, "You aim terribly. Did you know that? I'll bet your father taught you to shoot, didn't he?"

I peered around the corner of the boxes and pushed my gun in front of me. The weapon spat another two slugs before I saw the form on the floor. It was Sweetheart. He wasn't moving. "You missed again Ms. Ross." The voice taunted, "By the way, in the event you can't see your friend on the floor, I feel that I should tell you he's quite dead."

I swallowed hard and crept to the opposite side of the short row of boxes concealing me. An open doorway stood a few paces to my left. Through it I could see more boxes and shelves. I fired two rounds in the general direction of my attacker and sprinted through the opening. A tall pile of metal shelves provided a hiding place.

"Do you really think you can get away from me?" The voice asked, "I think you'd better guess again." Three shots rang out. Muzzle flashes once again temporarily blinded me. They seemed only a few feet away. Two bullets crashed into the shelves protecting me. The third sank into my leg and shattered my femur.

I screamed and rolled my body away. On my elbows I crawled for a nearby row of boxes. I had nearly reached them when I heard a footstep behind me, then two more gunshots as my rib cage exploded in pain. I rolled onto my back, pointed my gun toward the sound and emptied the clip in an arc. Laughter filled the room.

"I don't believe this." The voice said. A great pressure descended on my wrist. I followed it with my eyes to see a figure standing above me. It was her, Tonya Thomason, Ruben Fletcher's niece. I could make out her features in the flashing blue lights. She was still laughing as she pried the gun from my hand.

"I thought you'd be more difficult than your old man." She bragged, "He put up quite a fight you know, slashed me twice." She lifted her shirt to reveal two recently healed wounds on her abdomen. "I though you'd be more fun than your old man." She continued, "After all... you're FBI." She looked down at me for a moment in disgust, then kicked me. Searing pain ran a course through my body.

The room spun. I shivered. I felt as though I was in a meat locker. I found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on her face. My head rolled to one side. She vanished. She remedied this quickly, however, stepping over me and returning to my view.

"You'll have to admit this is a fitting place. Isn't it?" She prattled on, "This is the place your father doomed my uncle to death. This used to be a department store, you know. Did you realize that when you came here?" She kicked me again, but the pain barely registered. My head swam.

Then, she changed. Even in my stupor I noticed. I saw it in her face. I couldn't identify exactly what was happening, but I knew she wasn't happy. Her smile vanished. She spun with her arm outstretched. I heard the first shot but the rest escaped me. Instead, I counted muzzle flashes. One... two... three... four... five... then nothing.

Suddenly, she lay next to me. She landed with a soft thud I felt more than heard. Her open, lifeless eyes stared at me. They were once hard and cold. I remembered seeing them flash with rage when Ian provoked her. Now they were still. They became little more than iridescent color. They became the embodiment of innocence. I fell into them as my life slipped into nothingness and pools of our blood spread to become one.

The End

If you have enjoyed Tara Chen's "The Ross/Fletcher Case, Conclusion", then please be certain to e-mail her at  tara[at]dementedkitty.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

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