M. Sellars - In the bleak midwinter

The flash hit the edge of his sight once again.

Locking his eyes on the spot, he took a step forward and stopped. Then another, and waited again. Squinting against the wind he finally noticed an almost insignificant lump of crystalline white. He stepped toward it, and a more detailed outline began to emerge. Another step and he saw a small swath of black and the suggestion of a glint of silver. As the wind blew around it, a miniature drift was forming on the opposite side, leaving a concave void facing him.

He advanced the last few steps forward and again knelt down. Reaching out, he brushed away the rapidly accumulating flakes to reveal the object beneath. When he saw it, the pit of his stomach did more than just sink. This time it twisted into a hard knot as his heart thudded painfully in his chest.

A nauseating thought flickered through his head, and he remembered that less than a half-hour ago he had been glad to have a distraction. Now he was cursing himself for it.

He reached out and picked up the lone, abandoned shoe-a little girl’s black leather Mary Jane. Light once again glinted from the silver metal buckle as he lifted it from the snow, and his breath caught in his chest, lodging itself in that agonizing somewhere between an inhale and an exhale.

He didn’t need anyone to tell him that the shoe belonged to Merrie Frances Callahan. Nor did he need someone to explain that she was nowhere around to claim it.

He just knew.

6:23 A.M. – December 22, 2010

Huck’s Diner

US 61 North – Hannibal, Missouri

“… news out of Jefferson City this morning, the license of a Kansas City funeral home has been revoked by state regulators after multiple probation violations…”

The talking head on the dim screen continued, his voice droning outward from the speaker of the small television on the opposite side of the near empty diner. However, any further words he had on the story were all but drowned out by a far more cheerful voice that was issuing from a woman clad in a retro pink uniform, complete with an apron and a nametag that had MABEL stenciled across its face.

“How are you this morning?” the waitress asked.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Constance replied as she closed the vinyl-covered, tri-fold menu and looked up.

The woman in pink smiled. “Coffee, hon?”

“Definitely.”

“Regular or unleaded?”

“Regular.”

The waitress had come prepared. She placed a thick-walled mug upright on the table, and then with a practiced juggle of the two well-worn Pyrex globes in her other hand, plucked the brown handled one free. Tilting it carefully, she poured a stream of java while adding, “Fresh. Just made it.”

“Wonderful,” Constance replied.

The woman returned the pot to her other hand, once again hooking the orange and brown handles together in a death grip. Reaching into her apron pocket she pulled out a handful of creamers and put them on the table.

“Thanks.”

The waitress looked her over and with a genuine brightness in her voice asked, “Visiting Hannibal today?”

Constance gave her head a quick shake. “Just passing through, I’m afraid.”

“Too bad, we have a lot to see. And some wonderful little shops too. Great for last minute gift shopping.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Where’re you heading?”

“North.”

The waitress continued, undaunted by the vague answer. “Visiting family for the holidays?”

“Business, actually…”

“This close to Christmas? That’s a shame. Folks should be with family this time of year. Or, a pretty young lady like you, maybe with someone special?”

Constance smiled and shrugged but didn’t offer any information. Apparently her naked ring finger was doing all the talking for her. In any case, she was ready to bring the conversation to a close before it became any more invasive than it already had. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the friendly openness of small towns, so the woman’s queries didn’t really offend her. However, she also wasn’t accustomed to the culture either. In Saint Louis, where she lived, you were cordial to others; however, if you were too friendly, even out in the suburbs, people had a tendency to think something was either wrong with you or that you had an ulterior motive, nefarious or otherwise. Unfortunately, the vast majority of the time they were correct.

Of course, under the circumstances this exchange was probably good practice. The town where she was heading was even smaller than Hannibal, so she might as well be prepared for random Q and A from the locals there too. Still, she wasn’t ready to dive in headfirst. Not until she absolutely had to, and definitely not this early in the morning.

Fortunately, the waitress shifted the focus of her interrogation without any other prompting. “All righty then, hon, have you decided what you’d like, or do you need another minute or two?”

Constance smiled inwardly. Now they were back on track. She nodded and said, “The Becky’s Breakfast, I think.”

“How did you want those eggs?”

“Scrambled.”

“Bacon or sausage?”

“Do you have turkey bacon?”

“Sure do. White or wheat?”

“Wheat, please.”

“Okay, I’ll have that out in just a few.” The woman in pink flashed a smile and turned to head back toward the counter.

“Oh,” Constance called after her. “Do you have any grapefruit juice?”

“Not sure this morning, sugar. I’ll have to check on that for you,” the waitress answered. “If we have some do you want a large or a small?”

“Just a small. Thank you.”

Once the woman disappeared through the kitchen doors behind the counter, Constance turned her attention toward the TV. The morning news had given way to a kitschy commercial for a local car dealership. Oh well, she could tune in the news channel on her satellite radio once she was back on the road. Besides, right now she still had some reading to catch up on.

She took a moment to stretch. Two hours in the driver’s seat hadn’t done her any favors, given that the apparent urgency of this trip had caused her to miss her morning run, not to mention that she was operating on less than four hours sleep. She wasn’t a big fan of last minute assignments like this, but you went where your SSA told you to go. The mobility agreement was all part of the job, no matter the division where you were assigned, but most especially if you were a special agent in the field. Of course, in this instance she wasn’t even sure her SSA knew what was happening just yet. These orders had come from the SAC himself, and even he had implied that they originated from higher up the FBI’s food chain, which meant DC. Either way, when your boss’ boss is the one handing you an assignment, you don’t ask why. Not out loud, anyway.

Still, Agent Johnson was definitely going to owe her one for bailing on this. She didn’t care if he had a bad case of the flu or not. Tit for tat, that’s how it worked. He got out of it, and she got stuck with it, so he owed her. Moreover, if he was responsible for putting her name on the short list as a backup, his payback was going to be a bitch; namely her, and she had no problem bearing that moniker when she needed to.

What really bothered her was that the bureau had plenty of agents working from the Saint Louis headquarters, and she’d pulled more than her share of crappy assignments over the years. Wasn’t it someone else’s turn to work a holiday for a change? And why just her? Shouldn’t she at least have another agent from her squad along for the ride? Two sets of eyes were always better than one.

Or maybe it was just that she wanted to have someone to commiserate with?

Again, these were just more examples of questions and comments that you didn’t give voice, which is why they were now trapped on the inside with the rest of her thoughts and making a confusing din between her ears. On the flip side, it was possible she should be considering it a feather in her cap that the SAC, and possibly even someone in DC, had picked her out of the pool of agents. Unfortunately, the end of that feather was sharp, and right now it was poking through her cap and into her head in a most annoying fashion.