CHAPTER THREE
1268 Words
CHAPTER THREE
Ilse sat in one of the leather arm-chairs by the small, office door. The office rooms didn't even have ceilings but were rather an amalgamation of flimsy plywood walls with even flimsier doors.
Now, her eyes darted up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Her gaze traced the perfectly polished penny loafers and neatly pressed suit pants of Rawley. The SA didn't so much glance at her as he reached the thin, balsa wood door, pushed it open and stepped inside. He only paused long enough to call, “Come in, please, Dr. Beck,” before proceeding into the room himself and allowing the door to close.
Ilse let out a long breath, still sitting in her leather chair. She murmured quietly, so only she could hear, “Doss. Blackouts. Eleven victims. Major depressive disorder. Poison.” One of the soothing memory tricks she'd picked up over the years. Morbid, perhaps? Dark, certainly. But also effective where she was concerned. Ilse had long ago realized not to question an effective measure. The human psyche was nearly impossible to entirely predict.
Her breathing had regularized by now, and as she pushed out of her chair, she let out a long sigh, glancing in the direction of the small house in the center of the storage facility.
No sign of Agent Sawyer or Alvarez. No sign of the woman who'd been with them.
A slow prickle crept up Ilse's spine. At least none of them would have to watch this train wreck. She turned with a premonition of doom towards the balsa wood door, pushed at the flimsy wood and entered the small, cramped office space.
A single ceiling fan missing two blades dangled above a cheap, assemble-it-yourself black desk. The only expensive item in this room was the computer on the desk, which Agent Rawley was closing slowly, his eyes fixed over the lip of the machine as Ilse entered.
While he sat, there were no other chairs in the room. An intentional design to make trainees uncomfortable? An oversight by the interior decorator for the FBI who was clearly on a budget?
Before she could ponder this, standing now, facing the desk, Rawley spoke.
“I won't take much of your time, Dr. Beck,” he said, quietly.
She didn't wince, but she wanted to as if preparing for a blow. She swallowed and then, lunging at the momentary pause, the words escaped her lips before she'd realized she was speaking. “I'm sorry,” she said, quickly. “But I really think, if you give me another chance, I can do better. I know you should fail me. But I feel... feel led to join the FBI. I'm committed. With a few more weeks of practice, I'm sure—”
She went quiet as Rawley held up a single hand with a black wedding ring. He frowned briefly, his silver eyebrows dipping low. He cleared his throat and said, “I'm not here about your training, Dr. Beck. Apologies. I'm here about your other profession...”
She hesitated now, one hand nervously scratching at the back of her wrist. The tattoo band wrapped around it like the loop of a manacle, the ink reading: “Take captive every thought.” She watched Rawley, hesitant now, frowning as he seemed to be choosing his next words carefully. They knew she froze up during physical training. Surely, they knew... Didn't they?
What did he mean, though, this was about her other profession? Her work as a therapist?
Rawley looked at her, his ice-chip blue eyes unblinking. “I noticed you're still working your old job,” he said, cautiously. “Is this true?”
Ilse felt her expression flicker. She frowned, but then tried to hide it by coughing into her hand and glancing off to the side.
Carefully, she said, “I am. And...well, if you don't mind me saying, umm, sir, I was told it would be fine for me to continue my work with my clients. They—well, to be frank, they need me. I'm not able to cut ties. If that's what you want, I suppose all I can say is thank you for the opportunity, but—”
“Dr. Beck,” Rawley interjected, quickly. “You have it all wrong. I'm not trying to cause trouble for you. I—well, in fact, I'm here to ask for your help.”
Now, Ilse went still. She blinked, staring at the FBI supervisor. “Help?”
“Yes, Dr. Beck. Your help. It isn't strictly by the book, seeing as you haven't officially passed training. But we're on a bit of a time crunch.”
“Help with what?” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, still standing in front of the flimsy desk.
He leaned in, folding his arms together, and somehow still not wrinkling his suit. “We have a woman who was the victim of a brutal attack in Olympic State Park. Are you familiar with the peninsula's forest preserve?”
“Yes, of course.”
“This woman won't talk to police. Or FBI. Or even doctors.”
“I—I see...” Ilse's eyes slowly widened. “And you'd like me to speak with her?”
“You are a licensed counselor, yes?”
“A trauma therapist. Yes, sir. I'd be happy to do what I can. When would you like—”
“Right now, Dr. Beck. Like I said, we're on a time crunch. We have reason to believe this woman's attacker isn't done yet. She may have escaped, but others might not be so lucky. She's in a hospital in the city, waiting.” Rawley was already pushing out from behind his table, moving around the furniture and heading towards the door again. “I'm glad to hear you're amenable.” He paused, glancing back at her now. “The woman won't speak to anyone. So we're sending you alone. You'll have a chauffeur of course. Agent Sawyer volunteered.”
Ilse swallowed, nodding quickly. “I've worked with Tom before,” she said. “That's fine. And you'd like us to leave now?”
“He should be outside, waiting in the car as we speak,” Rawley replied. He made as if to move through the door, but then his expression flickered into a frown. He glanced at Ilse, and in a quiet tone, as if worried he might be overheard, he murmured, “Agent Sawyer is effective in the field. But he's single-minded. Be careful. Tom knows how to catch a killer. But sometimes, he's willing to pay too high a cost.”
Ilse stared at Rawley's expression, her mind whirring, trying to catalog his meaning.
Was he warning her? She'd known that Rawley and Sawyer had something of a history but she hadn't yet picked up on the nature of their relationship. She'd heard, once, that Agent Sawyer had punched his previous field supervisor. Had that been Rawley?
All of these questions whirred by, but the instructions were clear: they needed to leave now and speak with the victim. She wasn't being fired. In fact, thanks once again to Agent Sawyer, she was getting involved.
“Thank you, sir, I'll be on guard,” Ilse said, nodding once. Then she slipped past Rawley, through the door and, without glancing back, moved to the single exit to the warehouse which was guarded by two agents and a metal detector. She picked up her pace, moving away from Rawley and away from the training obstacle course.
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