RULES FOR DISAPPEARING
BY WITNESS PROTECTION PRISONER #18A7R04M:
Don’t forget who is a friend and who is a foe. And don’t forget, sometimes a person can be both.
THE wait for Agent Thomas to show up is excruciating. The only sound in the laundry room is the constant drip, drip, drip from the leaky faucet. I’m nervous about what I’m going to say to him, but not enough to back out. The door opens slightly and he walks in.
“I was surprised when you called. Do your parents know you’re down here?”
He picks up the chair next to me, moving it so we sit facing each other. Even at ten at night he’s dressed in a suit, without a wrinkle on him.
I ignore his question and ask my own. “Who’s after us?”
His forehead creases. “I don’t understand.” He has an odd expression. His arms cross as he leans forward in his chair.
“Who’s. After. Us? It’s not a difficult question. We are in Witness Protection for a reason. Someone wants my dad dead. Who is it?” There’s no way I’m telling a suit I have my memory back before I have a chance to talk to Dad, but I also want to know how far I can push Agent Thomas to talk.
“That information is unavailable to you.”
“So what happens if I leave the program? Will someone try to get me?”
“I thought we discussed this in the coffee shop.”
“No. In the coffee shop I asked a hypothetical question, and you answered it. Right now, I am asking you point-blank: what happens if I leave the program? Big difference.”
“What’s happened?”
I sit up straighter. “Nothing.”
“Nothing. You just decide in the middle of the night to call me to talk about leaving. I’m not buying it. Did something happen with your mom?”
“No. She’s fine.”
“Did you figure out what happened to get your family in Witness Protection?”
Shaky ground. My heart is pounding.
“No. I still have no idea what he did.” This is such bullshit. I try to keep the emotion out of my voice. It all boils down to who can bluff who better.
Agent Thomas sits back in his chair. He’s assessing me.
“Have you thought about it like I suggested?”
Oh, shit. He wants me to figure it out. “Yes. I thought about it. I thought back months before we left. Nothing. I got nothing.”
“Why do you want out? I will not even consider discussing this until you tell me what’s going on.”
I lean my head against the wall. “I’m tired.” Tears roll down my face and I can’t make them stop. “I’m exhausted. I don’t want to lie anymore. I don’t want to act like someone I’m not. I want to stop running. This is killing my family.” This is all true, no matter what else I know about the situation.
Agent Thomas hands me a handkerchief from inside his jacket. Who even carries those anymore? I take it from him and mop up my eyes.
“You have no idea what kind of trouble you’ll be walking into if you leave on your own. We don’t open this program to people unless it is absolutely necessary to ensure their safety and well-being. I cannot tell you who is out there looking for your family, but I can tell you it is no one you ever want to meet.”
I let all the air out and slump down in my chair.
“Remember what we talked about. If you have to be relocated again, it won’t be to another identity. I don’t know what’s running through your head, but that means no more school, no more job, no more parties or movies.”
My blood runs cold when he says parties and movies. They’re watching me closer than I realize.
“After the trial, we won’t force you to stay. But I wouldn’t recommend going off on your own at that point.” Agent Thomas leans forward on his knees.
“What if Dad decides not to testify? What then?” Maybe if I refuse to testify, no one will want to hunt me down.
Agent Thomas is tight-lipped for a moment. “That’s not really an option.”
I pull my knees up and lay my head down on them. We sit in silence another few minutes.
“Is this about a boy?” Agent Thomas asks, his tone much softer.
My head pops up. “No. This is not about a boy.”
Studying me, he sits back. It’s like I’m something under a microscope.
“I see this often in girls your age who are in the program. They meet some boy and they’re ready to give it all up. You’re young. This will pass.”
I roll my eyes. I hate nothing more than a condescending adult. “Whatever. If that’s all the help you can give me, then we’re done here.”
“Don’t forget to put your contacts back in if you leave the house again.”
I want to flip him off, but instead I grab my bag and storm out of the room.
I crack the door to my parents’ room and tread softly to my dad’s side of the bed. He jolts up after I tap him on the shoulder.
“Sissy, what’s wrong?”
“I need to talk to you,” I whisper.
He stumbles out of bed. Once we’re in the hall, I motion for him to follow me. There is no way I can make any sort of plan without knowing the full truth of what happened that night.
We step outside and sit on the steps.
Dad rubs his eyes a few times, then lets out a big yawn. I clench my jaw, fighting the panic rising in me.
“Dad, I remember.”
His head snaps up.
“We’re here because of what I saw. I remember about Mr. Price.” I take a deep breath and say, “And Brandon. Is that why we’re being protected?”
His face goes pale and his shoulders slump. “I never wanted you to remember. I wished you thought it was me forever, just so you didn’t have to remember.”
Seeing him deflate is like a knife to the gut. I move up the stairs and throw myself in his arms. “Daddy, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I’ve been so horrible to you. I’m sorry I was there. That I saw it.”
He hugs me tight. “No, don’t be sorry. You had no idea what he was involved in. None of us did.” He moves me to the step under his. We sit facing each other. “Tell me what you remember.”
The flashes set off in my brain once more. I tell him everything, about hiding behind the couch, Scar Face shooting Mr. Price and then Brandon. That I can’t remember anything past watching Brandon’s body hit the floor.
His forehead pinches together. “Are you sure there’s nothing else? Nothing at all you remember while you were in that office?”
“No, Dad, that’s it. Please tell me what you know. I’m ready.”
Dad lets out a deep breath. “I don’t know, Sissy.”
“This is about me. If you know something, then tell me. You may have thought you were doing the right thing, keeping me in the dark, but you weren’t. I need to know everything I can.”
He waits forever. “I only know what the agents have told me. The man with the scar is Eduardo Sanchez. He’s a big client of our accounting firm, and Price was his CPA. The FBI tells me that they’ve been watching Sanchez for years. On the surface, he has some import/export business, but they say he really works for a drug cartel out of Mexico, smuggling drugs into the States and laundering their money through his fake business. Price was helping him do it.”
“But why would Sanchez kill Mr. Price if he was helping him?” This is insane. I can’t believe Brandon’s dad was into something as horrible as this.
“Because Price was close to making a deal with the Feds—immunity for turning over all accounting records that could convict Sanchez of money laundering, and also showing them how the cartel moved the drugs and money. But Sanchez must have figured out what Price was doing—Price called one of the agents earlier that day saying he was scared Sanchez was on to him. Price agreed to meet with agents the next morning, turn over the evidence, and enter protective custody.”
Dad takes a deep breath before continuing. “But that night a neighbor called nine-one-one saying they heard gunfire, so officers were sent to his house. Price was dead. So was his son. And you were a wreck, hiding behind the couch. The police who showed up on the scene said you were mumbling things about a man with a scar, the ledgers, the fighting, the gunshots… The Feds couldn’t find any accounting information tied to Sanchez, and they couldn’t connect Sanchez to Price and Brandon’s murder. But they had you and they knew you witnessed what happened in that room so we were the ones who entered protective custody instead.”
My stomach drops.
Dad’s face looks grim. “The man with the scar, did he see you? From what you were saying to the police at Price’s house, they believe he knew you were in the room somehow.”
I take a second to search the foggy parts in my brain. “Uh…I don’t think so. No.”
Dad runs his hand over my head. “Sissy, I’ve been dealing with these agents for months. At first they weren’t sure I wasn’t involved. I’ve pored over every account the firm had, looking for anything that may help them.”
I shake my head, still confused. “There has to be something, other than me, to get this guy. What about the gun? Surely he left some fingerprints or something?” This can’t rest solely on me. It just can’t.
Dad’s voice gets rough and he puts his hands over his face. “They never found the gun, and they went over every inch of that house. It was clean.”
This is a nightmare.
“I don’t get it, Dad. Why did I forget all of this? Why can I only remember part of it now? Why is everyone just sitting around waiting for me to remember? Why not hypnotize me or get me into counseling?” A million questions form on my tongue.
“By the time they brought you home from Price’s house, you were like a zombie. Counselors came in and they talked to you for hours, trying to get you to open up but—nothing. There was just a blank expression on your face. They called it dissociative amnesia. It was too much for you to handle, so you blocked it out.”
I must look completely freaked out, because Dad starts squeezing my hands. “Sissy, why were you there that night? If one thing has been killing me this entire time, it’s wanting to know that.” I tell him about what happened with my friends, leaving out some of the more humiliating details. And the drinking.
“But I still don’t understand. Why didn’t they do something to help me remember?” I try to keep the hysteria from my voice. Dad watches me for a few minutes.
“Because I wouldn’t let them,” he says finally.
My dad’s a hard-ass, but I’m pretty impressed he could hold off the FBI. My eyes get huge, begging him to keep going.
“I didn’t want you to remember. If you could testify, you would have had an even bigger target on your back. The case’s head FBI agent is on my side. Agent Williams said the courts are throwing out testimony from witnesses when their memories had been restored through hypnosis or any other therapy like that. They’re saying it’s too easy to place false memories in that kind of situation. He didn’t want to risk this case on that argument, so the Feds are waiting you out. The counselors said your memory should come back.”
Small beads of sweat break out on my forehead, and my stomach is rolling. It’s getting hard to breathe. “So what does this mean now?”
Dad shakes his head. “I don’t know. We don’t have to tell them you remember. The prosecutors keep pressuring me to at least put you back in counseling. I can hold them off a while longer, but I don’t want you to testify. Sanchez is connected to some pretty dangerous people. The Feds want Sanchez bad. If they can get him on the murders, they’ve got something to work with. They’ll offer to take the death penalty off the table, or something like that, if he supplies them with all the ins and outs of the cartel’s drug-smuggling operation. Right now, he’s not talking.”
“So who are the suits protecting us from? Sanchez?” I ask.
“Not him, personally. The Feds have men watching him back home. It’s probably someone who works for him. Or someone who works for the cartel in Mexico. They have as much riding on your silence as Sanchez does,” he answers.
I stare out into the darkness, wishing there was some way to go back and forget everything I learned. “So if they know I can testify, they may come after me even harder to shut me up.”
Dad pulls me in close, hugging me hard. “They’ve been trying to make a case with the drug smuggling and money laundering, but they’re not having much luck without Price. I’ve been through the books a thousand times, and I can’t find anything. I told them Price was a paranoid bastard. Didn’t trust computers. Didn’t trust anybody.” He beats on the step with his fist. “Price had to keep a set of books, something that tracks where the money goes. A list of dummy accounts or fake fronts. Bank account numbers. Overseas transfers. It’s too complicated not to have a record of that. There has to be a paper trail somewhere. But I can’t find it. The Feds tore the office apart and even his house. They found nothing.”
The ledgers! I flash back to the night at Mr. Price’s house. My head starts spinning. “Dad, there was something about ledgers. Sanchez and Price were arguing about it.”
“I knew it! Did you see them? Do you know where they are?”
“No.” I feel helpless.
He pulls my face up to meet his. “Are you sure? This is really important.”
His expression is freaking me out even more. “No. That Sanchez guy kept screaming, ‘Where are the ledgers?’ at Mr. Price. But he wouldn’t tell him.”
“Promise me, Sissy, if you remember anything about where the ledgers are, you have to tell me right away. Come to me first, okay?”
I take two quick breaths. “Is that what you were talking about on the phone in the laundry room the other night? The ledgers?”
He drops his hands. “Were you listening to me?”
I nod. “I saw you go in. I went around back.”
He leans against the step.
“Dad, who were you talking to?”
Dad pulls me in close. “No. You shouldn’t have been listening. You let me worry about this.” He leans back. “Just promise you’ll tell me if you remember anything at all. No matter how small it is.”
“Are you trying to find the ledgers so you can turn them over to Sanchez? Because that’s what it sounded like.”
He looks pissed. And guilty, so I know I’m right. “You have no idea how ruthless these people are. I’m scared to death every day that something will happen to you or Teeny.” He looks away from me. “The Feds and their case are not my problem. He killed Price’s son, for God’s sake. This man is an animal. All I care about is this family, and I know the Feds can’t protect us. The man I was on the phone with called me first. I was at work.” Dad bangs his hand against the railing of the steps. “They know where we are. They’ve always known where we are. He said he’d let us go if I hand over any evidence the Feds could use against them. Said if I told the Feds, he’d know and he’d kill us all.”
I feel dizzy. “Why do they think we have any evidence to turn over?” I ask, my voice cracking.
Dad’s shoulders slump and all of a sudden he looks old. And tired. “I don’t know. That’s what’s been driving me crazy ever since we got to Natchitoches. The man on the phone is convinced you know where the ledgers are. I keep telling him you don’t remember anything, but he doesn’t believe me. But I’ll promise you this—if I did have any evidence, I wouldn’t give it to the Feds. I’d use it as leverage to get this bastard to leave my family alone.”
I slump back against the stair railing and can’t breathe. I feel like I’m falling. Dad shakes me and hits me on the back until I’m finally able to suck in some oxygen. His worried face looms over mine, and it’s a few minutes before I’m able to speak.
“Oh my God, Dad, I think I know what he’s talking about.” I take a few deep gulps of air and say, “That man—Sanchez—he did see me. After he shot Brandon, he must have heard me cry out or something, because all of a sudden he was there. Standing over me. With the gun in his hand.”
These new memories come rushing in as fast as the ones last night. And just like that—I’m back in that room. Brandon is dead. And I know I’m next. It’s quiet, so I hold my breath, praying he won’t find me. I hear footsteps—they echo off the hardwood floor—and I brace myself for what’s coming. And pray it doesn’t hurt.
I clear my head, bringing myself back to the present. God, I was terrified. I knew I was dead—there was no way he would let me live—not after what he did to Brandon.
“Sissy, calm down. Think. You have to tell me what you remember.” Dad is shaking me, probably harder than he realizes, and I put my hand on his to make him stop.
“I lied to him. And now he believes me and that’s why he’s after me.” I break down and sob against Dad’s chest. He holds me close, stroking my back.
“You’re not making sense, Sissy. Tell me what happened.”
I hiccup and use his shirt to wipe my eyes. “He didn’t say anything at first. He pointed the gun at me, and I just blurted out, ‘I know where the ledgers are!’ He must have believed me, because he lowered the gun and asked where they were.”
Dad leans back and asks, “Do you? Know where they are?”
“No!” I’m crying again. “I just said that so he wouldn’t kill me. I knew that’s what he wanted, so that’s the first thing that came out of my mouth. Then we heard the sirens. He just looked at me kind of funny for a few seconds, then ran off.”
Dad brings me back into the house and rubs his hands across my back in a calming rhythmic motion and says, “I’m so glad you said what you did. That’s probably the only reason he didn’t kill you that night, and the only reason you’re still alive today. He needs the ledgers more than he needed you dead.”
“Maybe we should tell the suits.” I’m shaking. This is so much worse than I expected.
“Sissy, if I thought that would make us safe, I’d have gone to them the minute that man called the factory.” He waits a moment before continuing. “He knew every town we’d been to and every name we used. We’re going to keep this to ourselves until I can figure something out. If you remember anything else—come to me immediately. This is the only way.”
I lay my head on his shoulder, and he holds me while the tears pour out.