Russell Andrews - Aphrodite

As Marion turned around, Rollins pulled a.38 out of his jacket pocket, the silencer already attached. When Marion turned back to face his inquisitor, he saw the gun and he stumbled backward.

"I don't understand," Ed Marion said. "You work for them? You work for Kransten?"

Rollins shook his head. "I'm FBI. I'm legit."

"But…I can help you guys. I know a lot."

"That's the problem, Ed. You know too damn much."

"I don't understand," Ed Marion said again, and he realized that he'd just wet himself.

"I don't always understand myself," Rollins said. "It's a bitch." Then he lifted the.38.

As Ed Marion lurched for the bathroom, Rollins fired. The noise was sharp but quiet, like a teenage boy playing cops and robbers in his backyard, making a sound effect with his mouth. The first bullet caught Marion in the back of the neck and he fell forward onto the floor. Rollins took two steps over to the body, pointed the gun downward, and fired one more shot, straight into Ed Marion's left temple.

Rollins didn't bother to check if the man was dead. There was no need to check. He holstered the gun, turned around, and left the motel.

When he got back in his car, he made two phone calls. Both were to Washington, D.C. The first one was to his direct superior, the man who was only one rung under the director. Rollins reported that his assignment had been completed and that he would provide more details as soon as he was able. He was then told to make the second call, which he did. That one was to the White House, where he gave his name, was put through to his contact in Homefront Security, and answered three quick questions.

"Yes, sir," was his answer to the man's first question. "He filled in several gaps and provided quite a few details. I'll come to D.C. tomorrow and provide a more thorough briefing." In response to the second question, he said, "No, sir. We don't know where Westwood is at the moment. But I believe we have a way to track him down soon." The answer to question number three was a simple "Yes, sir. As soon as I find him."

When he hung up the phone, Rollins sat in the car for a few moments, relishing the silence. He thought: Sometimes my job really sucks.

And then he thought: I'm starting to lose my taste for this.

As Assistant Director Leonard Rollins of the FBI turned on the ignition and broke the silence, his final thought was: I hope somebody kills Justin Westwood soon so I don't have to do it.

And then he willed himself to stop thinking.

"Here are the choices," Justin said. They'd been on the road for five minutes. Deena was in the front seat, looking at him with a dubious expression, as if she'd lost some confidence in his decision making. Kendall, on the other hand, had nothing but hero worship in her eyes. Good to know, Justin thought, I haven't lost my touch with the grade-school set. "Boston. Or just outside Boston. Marblehead. It's where Helen Roag is."

"We just show up there?" Deena asked. "What if she's…" She glanced back at her daughter. "What if she's gone?"

"You mean dead," Kendall said. "Like Grampy-gramps."

"Stop calling him Grampy-gramps," Deena said back. "You didn't even know the guy."

"We can call first," Justin said. "See what we can find out."

"I'll do it," Kendall volunteered. When Justin grinned at her, she said, "I mean, I was so good the last time."

"What are the other choices?"

"New York. We try to get into the Ellis Institute and find out what the hell's going on there."

"Is there a third one?"

"I'm sure there is. But I don't have it yet."

"I vote Boston," Kendall said.

"And why's that?" Justin asked her.

"The Red Sox," Deena said. "She loves Pedro Martinez." She glanced over to her right as they passed a gas station. Then she looked back at Kendall. "Honey, do you have to-"

"Mom," the little girl said sternly. "Do not ask me again if I have to go to the bathroom." She looked up at Justin, embarrassed. "I mean, ladies' room."

Deena sighed. "I vote for Boston too."

"Why?" Justin asked.

"Because it's closer. And New York's scary enough without people trying to…you know."

"Kill us?" Kendall finished.

"Nobody's trying to kill us, honey," Deena said. "You mustn't even think something like that."

"They are too. Aren't they, Jay? Aren't they trying to kill us?"

He looked helplessly at Deena.

"If they're not, why are we running?" Kendall asked, insistent.

"We're not running," Justin said gently. "We're trying to solve a problem."

"What problem?"

"Some bad people have done some bad things. We're trying to find out why."

"Who are they?"

"We don't exactly know that, either."

"I think you need some more help from me on this one, Jay. You don't sound like you know too much."

"Will you do me a favor?" Justin said to the girl.

"What?"

"When you're thirteen, will you call me up and remind me to stay away from you for the next six or seven years, because you are going to be some killer pain-in-the-ass teenager."

Kendall frowned and made a kind of "huh" noise. Then she sat back and pouted.

They'd been on the road for seventeen minutes. When they'd been driving for twenty-two minutes, Justin flicked around the radio dial until he got to the news. They caught the end of the sports report and a quick traffic update. Then the anchor came on and they heard: "The top story of the hour. A man was found murdered in a Weston, Connecticut, motel room just a few minutes ago, shot twice in the head. He's been identified as Edward Marion, a Weston local. Police have not revealed why he had checked into the motel or if there are any potential suspects. The man's wife has been notified and police say she is not a suspect. We will update this story as more information comes in. We repeat: A local resident was found murdered in a Weston, Connecticut, motel room…"

Justin turned off the radio. Breathing heavily, he pulled the car off to the shoulder of the highway. The choking sensation was back, the almost unbearable weight on his chest. He sat there until his breath came slowly and easily. Then he waited another few moments until he was sure he could speak without throwing up.

He turned to the girl in the backseat. "Hand me a cell phone, will you? There's one in my jacket pocket." Kendall passed the phone forward. The expression on Justin's face was all she needed to tell her that she should keep quiet. He punched eleven numbers into the phone, waited until Gary answered at the East End police station.

"It's Justin," he said.

"Jesus-" the young cop began.

"Don't say anything. Just listen. And just answer my questions yes or no. Is Rollins there?"

"No."

"Did he go out right after I called?"

"Yeah. Yes."

"Did he make any calls after I hung up on him?"

"Yes."

"Did he try to contact a local Feebie bureau?" There was no answer. "Gary, I think you're either nodding or shaking your head. That doesn't do me any good."

"No. I don't think so. I don't know for sure."

"Did he call in since he's been gone?"

"Yes."

"Did you speak to him?"

"No."

"He talk to Jimmy?"

"Yeah. Listen, I gotta tell you something."

"Can you say it so nobody hears you?"

"Yeah."

"All right. What is it?"

"When Rollins called Jimmy," Gary said, his voice a harsh whisper, "he said that you killed the guy in Connecticut. They're putting out a warrant for your arrest. You're wanted for murder."

"Listen to me, Gary. I want you to call me later, when you can get away and can talk freely. Okay?" No answer on the other end. "You have to trust me one more time, kid. Don't tell anybody I called. Don't tell anybody you're gonna call me back. Use the cell number I gave you earlier. Okay?"