Page 15 of Facing the Enemy
The urge to call and hear his voice tugged at me. The adage of not really missing someone until they were gone was a reality and a heartache. When I finally returned to the FBI—and I fully intended to—maybe I could be honest with Gage. The tenderness in his eyes when we were together told me he kept his feelings on lockdown too. The fear of losing my friend to gain a romantic relationship had stopped me from sharing my heart. The puzzle pieces refused to slide into place. Now regrets pelted me like a stoning.
I swiped the tears from my cheeks and tossed a spinach and chicken salad down the garbage disposal. Another dinnerless day. Were Mom and Dad okay? Oh, I’d hurt them with no face-to-face interactions. Phone calls helped, but those didn’t remove the longing. My poor parents had lost a son and now their only remaining child waved from a distance. Dad’s birthday had come and gone—a daywe always feasted on Greek food. But this year Dad and Mom opted for Tex-Mex.
SAC Dunkin had authorized my continued security access, and I’d used the sites to dig into any potential links to those who might want me dead. I forwarded all info that needed FBI attention to him, and he researched the matter and got back to me. I needed to unravel the motive. That would help unlock the door to finding the killer. The longer my brother’s case remained open, the more it faded into the FBI’s and HPD’s background. Other issues vied for their attention. But not my brother’s death. I knew firsthand the situation, but still anger seized me when I least expected it.
I investigated a woman I’d sent to prison for selling child porn online. At sentencing, she’d vowed to kill me. She’d been released six months ago. Since then, she participated in counseling and worked at a fast-food restaurant. Some people rehabilitated but many slipped back into old habits. Their commitment depended on those who positively influenced them balanced with a vow to stay clean. The SAC told me what I already knew—the woman had all the outward appearances of one who’d learned from her mistakes.
The silence in my apartment had a ghostly feel, as though Trenton watched over me. Not a spooky feeling but a presence I’d sensed many times. Even welcomed. I doubted the sensation fit into anything scriptural, but the awareness comforted me. I’d asked God to send me reassurance that Trenton was loved and happy. Perhaps my recurring dream of my smiling brother answered my pleas.
How would I ever come to terms with Trenton dying for me?
Opening my laptop, I sent my students a message through the class portal.
Reminder. Short stories due Friday.
Half of my students’ grades came from this final assignment, and I supported their success in finishing the course well. Something in my life needed to be positive. I shook my head. What a self-centered attitude. My grief wouldn’t last forever, and if I lost hope in findingTrenton’s killer, the depression would cuff me. My English doctorate and past professorship had gotten me this job, but writing updates in craft and style kept me up late.
I rested my chin on my palm and stared at my laptop screen. My students held a lot of potential, and they worked hard. Watching them grasp techniques and apply them to their writing filled me with ... satisfaction. I longed to be back at the FBI, yet teaching allowed me to give back to others and fill the longing to inspire and encourage young writers. It probably had a lot to do with the constructive influence of my upbringing.
A response to my class’s reminder arrived from Carson Lowell via the portal’s chat feature. If I had a teacher’s pet, it just might be him. Since my first day, he’d entertained me with his wit and humor, my best student scholastically, and he had the gift of personality. Laughing, I clicked on his name.
Professor Jacobs, I’d like to turn in my short story tomorrow due to a road trip I’m taking with some friends over the Christmas holidays, starting on Thursday. Is that okay?
Sure. Enjoy your road trip.
The clock moved toward eleven thirty. I’d try to sleep, but I imagined a repeated restless night.
After little sleep and chastising myself for not seeing what I was missing in Trenton’s death, I downed three cups of black coffee and attempted to clear my head for class. Three more days until Christmas break, which meant time alone like the long Labor Day weekend, Thanksgiving, and now Christmas. Holiday decorations were for happy people, not me. My apartment resembled a pagan’s.
The next morning, leaving the silence of my home surroundings, I drove to the college campus. I switched the radio to Christmas music, but my heart couldn’t handle the season. “Silent Night,” “Deck the Halls,” and “OCome, All Ye Faithful” had been benchmarks of myfaith. Had been. The melodies and words now churned my stomach. I pounded the steering wheel and flipped off the radio.
My lecture today focused on a review of the semester in creative writing and a Qand A. Tomorrow they’d have a written exam. On Friday, I wanted to hear their comments about the class, how it could be improved. What they liked or didn’t like and suggestions for additional topics. I’d insisted the students not only complete assignments but submit them for publication. The success of seeing their work in print encouraged them and added to their portfolio of writing accomplishments. I arrived early and scanned my notes before the students arrived. How would I spend my hours during Christmas break? The kids slowly trickled in. They laughed and talked, their enthusiasm for life becoming my inspiration for a brighter tomorrow.
“In our sessions together,” I said, “we’ve covered the fundamentals of writing and publishing with proven techniques. We’ve talked about the influence of social media in building a platform and developing quality content for followers. We’ve discussed freelance and magazine writing with an emphasis on research. Your assignments have included practice on every topic covered—query letters, markets for you to submit your work, and submission. Part of your classwork was to submit your work, and some of you are now published. Self-editing tips moved your writing to the next level. We discussed the importance of critique partners and writing groups to improve professional habits and help other writers. We discussed creating a short story, which is 50percent of your final grade. Questions before we move on?”
“Can I use climate fiction as a setting for my short story?” a female student said. “I wrote it in another genre, but I really like this one.”
“Your choice,” I said. “Your grade won’t be based on genre but on the structure and content of a short story. In your example, setting is crucial, so use it to create a powerful story. You have two more days before the project is due.”
A male student shot up his hand. “How much backstory do I need in a fantasy short story?”
“Enough to show character motivations and behavior,” I said.
“Can my short story be a chapter from a book?” the same young man said.
“As long as it stands alone and meets the criteria for the assignment.”
I’d considered having each student write their own backstory leading up to why they had registered for my class. But I often completed the same assignments as requested of them, and none of these young minds needed to read about my tragedy.
8
Thursday evening, I fought the urge to call Gage ... just to hear his voice. We’d spent past Christmases as friends, and I’d always taken him for granted. Even then I wanted more. I finished a bowl of Frosted Flakes and milk—my typical evening meal—and closed the blinds to the city’s sparkling holiday lights outside my living room window. Balancing a fresh cup of coffee in one hand, I curled up on the sofa with my laptop. A dog would be good company if I wasn’t allergic and detested dust. Instead, I used a quilt that my favorite aunt had made for me when I graduated from Quantico. I checked FBI secure sites for any information leading to Trenton’s killer—and found the usual nothing. Either deep within my research or hiding in plain sight dangled the evidence.
Other than Carson, my students would be sending me their stories tomorrow, but boredom and curiosity needled at me to read Carson’s project tonight. His mind often translated topics with a bit of humor, and he used the technique when writing murder mysteries, even poetry and essays. Although I no longer cared to read about gruesome deaths, his voice added depth to his writing. I opened the file containing Carson’s short story “Right Day, Wrong Body.” I sighed, much preferring to read a sci-fi or fantasy with a heavy dose of Middle Earth or an alternate universe.
Houston’s summers melt the ice in a killer’s veins, but the heat just makes him meaner. I know this for a fact. I’m that killer. I crave violence any way I can get it. My favorite color is red, blood red, and I like it best when pooled beside a dead body. Eyes open and staring into nothingness. So while good people are glued to the TV, I get into my car, turn the AC to max, and search for someone to fill my cravings. But tonight I have my target. A woman. I know where she lives and how she fills her hours.
I drive closer to her high-rise apartment building and turn off the obscene rap pounding in my ears. Don’t need a distraction. I park and wait. What luck! She’s out walking. Now I can eat the pizza beside me instead of using it for a fake delivery.
