Color of Blood(120)

Dennis fought a furious pitched battle with his paranoia; was he crazy to think Massey would concoct something so outrageous? Was he losing his mind?

Or was the shipment of Europium so controversial that Massey and his team would silence whistleblowers like Garder, and now Dennis? Garder certainly thought so.

If Massey was capable of that, then the scene in his office earlier in the day was the perfect set up. Someone was going to visit Dennis that evening, someone he trusted to let in the house. That person was going to put a handgun to Dennis’s temple and pull the trigger.

God, it was clever.

Massey was not going to let a washed-up, obnoxious investigator ruin their clever program. God knows whose idea the program was, or who was actually running it, but someone somewhere decided it was worth doing.

Dennis had seen this kind of bureaucratic insanity before and was well aware of how threatened individuals became when they were at risk of being exposed. Still, the perversity of his theory was so convoluted that he had to wonder.

Paranoid or prudent?

Crazy or correct?

Reflexively, Dennis looked at the front door.

No, he wasn’t crazy. Dennis was convinced someone was coming for him tonight.

He paced the living room, then went into his bedroom and reached into the top drawer of his bedside table. He pulled out the Glock and checked to see if the clip was full. Satisfied, he made sure the safety was on and slid it in his right front pants pocket.

He went into the living room and paced back and forth, thinking again about what he feared was going to happen. The light was beginning to fade outside, and he closed the curtains on the two front windows.

And yet, he still felt he was not being thorough enough.

What was he missing?

His theory was that Massey—either of his own volition or with others—had created the ideal circumstance whereby his self-inflicted death could be easily explained.

But how in the hell was Dennis going to be forced to shoot himself in the head when Dennis had no intention of turning over his gun to another person? They must know that? Whoever they were going to send over to put Dennis’s gun to his temple would need to get the gun from Dennis first, then quickly turn it on him and make it look like suicide.

Too many things could ruin that scenario. Dennis might not turn over the gun; he might turn over an unloaded gun. How was someone going to load it and make Dennis stand still while they put the barrel against his skull? Surely he would fight back, even if there were two people, and the bruises from a fight would not square with suicide.

It had to be Dennis’s gun; there was a Virginia Commonwealth gun permit identifying that gun’s serial number and his ownership of it. If he was killed using another gun, a ballistics analysis would show it was not a round fired from Dennis’s legal gun.

Wait, Dennis thought. This is too complicated. I need to calm down. Maybe I am losing my mind.

He was debating whether to stay in a motel nearby when the doorbell rang. He stood frozen in the hallway. The doorbell rang again. He pulled the pistol out of his pocket and tiptoed to the front door, holding the gun behind his back. Gently, he put his eye up to the peephole.

“Shit,” he said.

Dennis yanked the door open and stared sharply through the thin glass of the storm door.

“Dennis?” Judy said, squinting. “Dennis, it’s Judy.”

She stood outside in the early evening chill and watched Dennis. A small red roll-on suitcase stood next to her.

He jammed the gun into the small of his back, reached down, and opened the glass door, backing away to let her in.

She pulled the suitcase in and stood uncertainly in front of him.

“I tried to reach you, but you wouldn’t answer my emails. I tried your mobile phone, but you appear to have a new number. I was worried to death about you, Dennis. I thought if I just came over—you know, to make sure you were all right.”

He glared at her.

“Can I at least have a hug?” she said. “It’s been a long trip.”

Dennis took a step away from her.

“Oh,” she said. “I guess this wasn’t a good idea after all.” She looked at her suitcase, then back at Dennis.

Looking out over her shoulder and into the street beyond, Dennis said, “Where’s your car?”

“I took a taxi,” she said slowly, confused with his tone.

“Right,” he said.

Judy sagged and ran her fingers through her hair.

“This is a disaster,” she said. “I came here because I wanted to surprise you. And I missed you. I thought you might miss me. But in retrospect, it was a stupid idea. You know me and men: oil and bloody water.”

They looked at each other.

“Dennis, can you please call me a taxi? I need to sleep. I feel very foolish right now, and exhausted. Please? I don’t want to start crying in front of you.”

“But why tonight?” Dennis asked.

“I don’t know Dennis!” she said. “Please call me a taxi. I don’t think I can stand up much longer.”

Dennis stared.

“Oh, never mind,” she said, turning and grabbing the handle on her suitcase. She started to drag it out the door, fighting with the storm door.

He reached out and grabbed her arm from behind.

“Judy, who sent you here tonight?”

“Who sent me here?” she said. “What are you talking about, Dennis? I sent myself here.”