Sarah Walker closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and leapt from the Vincent Thomas Bridge.
She could hear the chorus of screams behind her as her body fell. Little did they know that she was using a dive technique that had been taught to her years before by a Marine Corps drill sergeant in Virginia.
As the water below rapidly approached, she took one last fleeting glance at Chuck’s smiling face on the iPhone, and then let it go. She clasped her hands in an arrow shape ahead of her.
She was going almost thirty miles an hour when she pierced the surface of the water. Despite her form, the impact was severe enough to wrench her left shoulder from its joint. She forced herself not to cry out in pain, knowing that that would just cause her to swallow salt water.
She opened her eyes, the polluted salt water stinging them. She looked for and quickly found the shadow of the Vincent Thomas Bridge on the water. Moving quickly, she kicked her feet rapidly, propelling herself toward that shadow.
Once she was completely within the shadow of the bridge, she finally allowed herself to surface. Her head breached the surface of the water, and she gasped for breath, sucking in oxygen greedily. She could hear the horrified people on the bridge above, the sirens from the emergency vehicles, the news helicopters still hovering overhead.
She had to get out of the water, and fast, before they started searching for her body. Let them find the credit cards, the IDs, the by now fried iPhone, and let them assume that her body had been eaten by something.
A ferry to Santa Catalina Island was departing from the Catalina Terminal – no more than a hundred feet from where she floated in the water. Kicking again and using her good arm, she swam toward the ferry. She reached it just as it finished backing out of its berth.
A deck worker stood on the edge of the automobile deck, smoking a cigarette. “¡Oyé!” she called, just loud enough for him to hear.
He looked down, and then reacted in shock as he saw her floating in the water. “Mujer loca,” he muttered, reaching down and tossing a rope ladder over the side of the boat.
Using her good arm, she struggled up the ladder. The deck worker reached over and helped her onto the ferry. “Gracias,” she said, reaching into her pocket, withdrawing a waterlogged hundred dollar bill, and handing it to him.
He took the bill and looked her in the eyes. “I never saw you,” he said in heavily accented English.
He turned away, and she disappeared between two rows of cars. Lifting her left arm with her right, she braced it against the side of a Ford Taurus. Gritting her teeth, she violently twisted her torso, popping the shoulder back into place.
She gasped, resisting the urge to scream. She collapsed between the cars and sat there for a moment, breathing heavily.
She stayed hidden between the cars for about an hour. It was not the first time she had been on the Catalina Island ferry, and so she knew just how long it took to go from San Pedro to Avalon.
She moved to the side of the boat, trying to ignore the twinge in her shoulder. Yep, there was the island, no more than a quarter mile away. They were probably five miles yet from the town of Avalon, which meant the boat would be docking in about fifteen minutes.
Gauging the speed of the current against the speed of the boat, she waited until just the right moment, and then jumped again. She hit the water feet first, not wanting to subject her shoulder to any more damage.
The tide was with her, and it carried her into shore quickly. She was on the beach within five minutes.
She walked onto shore, stripping down to her underwear as she went. She’d have to find an isolated spot somewhere away from the beach, let everything dry out, and recover for a little while.
She turned and looked across the harbor. Long Beach was barely visible on the horizon.
She sighed heavily, and she could feel her eyes stinging as they began to tear up. Chuck must know by now, and it had to be devastating for him.
But there was nothing she could do. Sarah Walker was dead. The woman standing on the beach on Catalina Island had no name, no identity. She was nobody.
9:30 A.M.
Burbank, California
Chuck stood, frozen in horror, the phone pressed to his ear. The high-definition shot from KNBC gave him a very clear view. Sarah pulled out her phone and looked at it. Chuck watched as her eyes welled up with tears.
She looked directly at the helicopter, and Chuck watched as she mouthed the words, I’m sorry, Chuck. I’m so sorry.
And then, she stepped off the bridge.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Chuck screamed, rushing toward the televisions as though he could stop her. He collapsed to his knees in front of the wall, just in time to see a small splash on the water, far below the two helicopters.
He felt like he couldn’t breathe, and yet he felt like his lungs were going to explode. He was certain his heart had stopped, and yet it was beating a double-time staccato. Chuck threw his head back and let loose a wordless howl of anguish.
Chuck felt hands grab him underneath his arms and begin to drag him away. He struck out blindly. John Casey and Morgan Grimes pulled him away from the television sets, tears streaming down their own faces, yet determined to get Chuck as far from the televisions as possible.
Big Mike ordered the wall shut off as Chuck was dragged away. He told everybody to get back to work, and then followed Casey and Morgan toward the back.
He reached the back of the store, and burst through the break room doors, to find Chuck huddled, catatonic, in the fetal position in the corner. Casey and Morgan stood over him, concern written on their faces.
“You’ve got to get him out of here,” Big Mike told them, very seriously. “He’s gonna turn psychotic if you don’t get him somewhere safe. And I think the two of you need to go as well.”
Casey nodded. “I’m gonna go get the Herder and pull it around to the loading dock,” he told Morgan in a very tight voice. “Keep an eye on him.”
Morgan nodded wordlessly. Casey ran out of the back and through the store.
A moment later, the NSA agent reappeared. “Okay, let’s get him out of here,” he said to Morgan.
“Hey, buddy, we gotta go,” Morgan said quietly, trying to get Chuck to move. Chuck didn’t move – he just stared straight ahead, rocking back and forth a little.
Casey steeled himself. “BARTOWSKI!” he barked. That got through. Chuck looked up at him. “Move your ass!”
Chuck stood, and the look on his face was so depressing that Casey immediately felt bad for yelling – and Casey NEVER felt bad about yelling. Wordlessly, Casey and Morgan each took one of Chuck’s arms and guided him to the loading dock.
Casey unlocked the Herder with the remote. Morgan opened the shotgun door, and got in the back seat. Casey loaded Chuck into the shotgun seat. Like an automaton, Chuck reached for the seatbelt and pulled it across himself, buckling himself in. Casey ran around and got in the driver’s seat.
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into the apartment complex. Casey got out of the Herder and pulled Chuck out. Morgan bailed, and together, they guided Chuck to the apartment. Casey opened the door, and they led him inside, sitting him down at the kitchen table.
Ellie Bartowski was in the kitchen, and was rather surprised to see them come in. “John?” she asked in surprise. “What are you doing –“
And then she caught sight of her brother’s face. “What the hell happened?!”
Casey let go of Chuck’s arm, leaving him to Morgan. He grabbed Ellie’s, and pulled her out into the living room.
“Walker… um, Sarah committed suicide,” he told Ellie with no preamble. This drew a horrified gasp from the doctor, her hands flying to her mouth. “She jumped off the Vincent Thomas Bridge. KNBC and KABC were both there, and Chuck… well, he happened to be unlucky enough to see it happen on live TV.”
“Oh my God,” Ellie whispered. Turning her back on Casey, she dashed back into the kitchen. Ellie threw her arms around her little brother, embracing him tightly. “I’m sorry, Chuck,” she sobbed. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
What Chuck said then was surprising, and a little bit disturbing as well. “It’s okay, Ellie,” he said softly, his voice oddly vacant. “Sarah’s in heaven now, with Dad and Grandpa and Grandma. That’s what Pastor Dana would say.”
Ellie pulled back and fixed Chuck with a look. “What?”
“I’m tired,” he replied. “I think I’m gonna go to bed.”
And with that, he stood, and wandered off to his bedroom. The door swung shut behind him.
“Who’s Pastor Dana?” Casey asked, confused by what he’d just seen.
“Dana Hanson,” Ellie replied distractedly. “He’s the pastor at First Lutheran Church of Northridge – it’s where we went when we were kids – he can’t be in there alone. Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on him.”
Casey took Ellie by the arm and guided her into the living room again. “What I am about to tell you will sound completely unbelievable, but it’s the truth,” he said. “And you cannot ever, ever tell anybody. Understood?”
Ellie nodded, a startled look on her face. “Okay,” Casey began. “Chuck is an employee of the United States government. He has a top secret job. I’m an agent of the National Security Agency. I was sent here to protect Chuck. His room is wired like a pinball machine. I will know in an instant if something goes wrong. Okay?”
“Sure,” Ellie replied, looking shell-shocked. “Chuck works for the government?”
“That’s all I can tell you,” Casey replied. “It’s for your own protection.”
“Okay,” Ellie said. “Um, where’s your, uh, surveillance equipment?”
“It’s in my apartment,” Casey said. “I can go home, keep an eye on him from there. Why don’t you and Morgan stay here, make sure everything’s okay?”
Ellie nodded. “I’ll be right next door if you need anything,” Casey assured her.
He exited the apartment – and was struck by the fact that just four hours before, he had been standing RIGHT THERE, outside THAT WINDOW, looking in on the Bartowskis, with Sarah. What could have possibly driven her to do what she had done?
Casey shook his head as he crossed the courtyard. “I hope you had a really, really good reason, Walker,” he muttered to himself.
He slammed open the door to his apartment and let it swing back shut behind him. He turned on the surveillance equipment and sent the audio feed to the small speakers sitting on either side of the portrait of Ronald Reagan.
There didn’t seem to be any major activity coming from Bartowski’s bedroom – just whimpering, interrupted by the occasional sob. Then Casey did something he’d never done before – he turned on the video feed.
The image on the screen was heartbreaking, even for somebody as tough as nails as John Casey. Chuck was curled up on his bed, back in the fetal position he had been in when he collapsed in the Buy More break room. This time, though, he had two things held tightly against his chest – the grey sweater that Sarah had accidentally left there the weekend before, and his framed picture of the two of them from Halloween.
“How could you do this to him, Walker?” Casey whispered to himself.
With a sigh, he crossed to the phone alcove, where his secure telephone rested. Picking it up, he dialed a number in Reston, Virginia. When it was answered, he asked to speak with Max Power.
There was a series of clicks and rings as the call was bounced from switchboard to switchboard, baffling whatever taps – the NSA’s included – that might be listening in. Finally, the phone was picked up.
“Hello?”
“Larkin, this is Casey. Walker killed herself. If you care AT ALL for Bartowski, you will get your ass to Los Angeles, and I mean tonight.”
Somewhere in Venezuela, Bryce Larkin’s cell phone fell from his hand and clattered to the floor. “Oh my God,” he breathed, a tear rolling unbidden from his eye.
No comments:
Post a Comment