Page 56 of Trace of Doubt
I expected a black SUV like in the movies and agents who had their real teeth. The car wove in and around country roads until the driver, Isaac Sims, stopped at a rusty mobile home nestled in thick pine and oak trees several feet from the road.
“Home sweet home.” His raspy voice indicated a man in his early seventies. He had a round face and black hair, which had to be dyed.
“Is it a World War II tank?” I said.
Both men laughed, and the other agent, Aaron Marod, a manof basketball-player height and bushy silver eyebrows, pointed to the mobile home. “The last time I was here, I had to clean up varmints from the kitchen before I could put the food away. Denton told me he’d keep this place clean, but he lied to us.”
“How long ago?” Suspicions about these two crowded my mind.
Aaron rubbed his chin. “Whatcha say, Ike? Ten years ago? Right after the big scare of the Y2K?”
“Sounds about right.”
“That is more than twenty years.” I glanced from one man to the other. “Are you two active agents?”
“Retired.” Isaac opened the car door. “We’re doing this protective detail as a favor to Denton.”
“Is he paying you?” How fast could I get Denton on the phone?
“Yes, missy. Private job. Why else would we agree to live out here in this run-down trailer?” He turned to Aaron. “Hold off on bringing in the ice chest until I take a look inside. No point hauling it in until we get the place cleaned up.”
Retired agents and a mobile home that looked like it needed to be hauled away? And Denton agreed to pay them? Shock washed over me.“Private job.”What had this protection detail cost him?
My thoughts trailed back to what he’d done for me since my release. True, he was motivated by finding a link to the five hundred thousand dollars. Later, he changed his tune. Other factors pointed to his being a good man, one who’d gone above and beyond to prove I’d paid my debt to society. He’d been convinced of my innocence. Despite my stained past, he sacrificed his time and money.
Stunned and emotional best described me. So many times, I wished I could tell him the truth about Travis’s death.
“I thought the FBI had sanctioned this assignment,” I said.
“Investigating it only. But the kid needed more evidence for protection detail, so you’re stuck with us.” Isaac stepped out of the car, and for the first time, I noted a rounded belly. “We are yourbest defense. Them young agents have more training than real-life experience. Trip over their own firearms.”
Isaac disappeared up wobbly, concrete-block steps and inside the metal structure. I tilted my head to study my “temporary housing,” as Denton called the situation. No broken windows, but a screen door rested on one rusty hinge. Weeds grew from under the mobile home as though they tickled its belly, and a thick layer of yellow-green pollen covered every visible inch of grass and metal and foliage. I was allergic to most substances that existed outside, and my inhaler weighed in at nearly empty. At least I had a spare for emergencies.
The structure looked more like it hadn’t seen human habitation in decades. I’d say in the last fifty years except power lines were connected to whatever needed electricity inside. An oak tree leaned precariously close to the roof, defying the next gust of wind to blow it down. A crow swept from the treetops and perched on the roof. When the bird cawed, it sounded like a protest against the intruders. A fat tawny cat crept in front of the car, offering a little reassurance to the reduction of mice and rats.
Isaac left the mobile home, shoving the broken screen door back until it broke. His stocky build served him well. He tossed it into the weeds and signaled for us to join him. “Looks like no one’s been here since us.”
I moaned.
Aaron laughed. “Hey, Ike, I’ll get the cleaning stuff from the trunk. And the extra rifle and ammo.”
Not their first rodeo.
For the next four hours we cleaned. Isaac tuned in an old radio to country-and-western music, and Aaron took every opportunity to switch to hard rock, which took me off guard. He claimed Def Leppard, Guns N’ Roses, and Bon Jovi were the best of the eighties. Isaac argued that Willie Nelson, George Strait, and Kenny Rogers sang the heart of the south.
While I listened to their musical debate, which replacedthoughts from my own fears and distress, I disinfected the kitchen, top to bottom and inside out. Remarkably, the spotless and disinfected fridge hummed, and cold air swirled from the motor, a miracle considering the dust and dirt now covering most of me. Two out of the four burners on the electric stove burned hot, and the oven, after I wiped up a dozen dead roaches, even worked. I wasn’t a stranger to roaches, but I’d never seen so many in one place.... Many scurried about, still alive.
My lungs tried my body’s patience. Neither had a tolerance for the outside allergens and the inside dust. I bent and gasped for breath until I gave in to using my inhaler.
“Are you okay?” Isaac stood over my air-depleted lungs.
I held up a finger until I could breathe.
“Hope you have plenty of juice in that thing. We may be stuck here awhile.”
After a moment’s reprieve, I could speak. “This one’s empty, but I have another one in my purse.” I reached for the spare, but it was gone.
I always carried an extra inhaler. What happened to it?
