The Enigmatologist by Ben Adams Page A

hollow.
    “You obviously know I do. I don’t know how many times I
have to tell you this, I’m on a case.”
    “I’ll tell you what you were doing there. You were looking
for this man.” He held up a copy of Mrs. Morris’s picture, a printout John kept
in his bag. “Why are you looking for him?”
    “Yeah, I told you that. The National Enquirer hired
me to find him. But when I went to the trailer, the guy wasn’t there.”
    “Then you’re of no use to me. Kill him,” he said,
gesturing to his men.
    “Wait. What the fuck? Hey…Hey, just give me a chance to
explain. There’s been some kind of mistake.”
    “Leave his body here. It’ll send a better message.” The
two soldiers grabbed John’s shoulders, slammed him back into the chair, tried
to hold him steady.
    “To who? the guy in the trailer?” John asked, struggling
against them. “Who is he? Who are you looking for?”
    “Keep it quiet, but messy,” Colonel Hollister said to the
soldier standing next to John. He put the iPad away
and pulled out a large knife. He grabbed a handful of John’s hair, pulled his
head back, exposing his neck.
    “He has pictures of you,” John blurted out. “Pictures of
you and Elvis.”
    The colonel held up his hand. The sergeant released John’s
hair, pushed him forward. He sheathed his knife.
    “You didn’t know he had pictures of you?” John sat back,
panting. His mind began to move laterally, skirting around obvious questions to
something more obscure. “Or that he was following you? What does he have on
you?”
    “Tell me about the pictures.”
    “You were friends, weren’t you? you and Elvis? That’s what
the pictures show. The two of you.”
    Colonel Hollister stood. He walked to the window and drew
the curtains back.
    “We were friends. Not many people can say that,” Colonel
Hollister said, putting his left hand on the window. He didn’t drop his head,
look to the place where the carpet joined the wall. Instead, he looked at the
black parking lot, the barely lit street. At something in the darkness.
    “In the pictures, he seemed happy, comfortable, like he
enjoyed talking to you.”
    “There’s never enough time to…” Colonel Hollister took his
hand from the window and held it behind his back.
    “He knows you’re watching him, doesn’t he? That’s why you
haven’t gone in the trailer. He’s smart. Sneaky. Knows where you have your
cameras. That camera angle,” John said, motioning to the soldier with the
tablet, “it’s not from the gas station. I’m guessing it’s from a lamppost or
telephone pole, maybe a junction box. I bet you even have a satellite over it
right now. He probably knows about that, too, and knows how to avoid them both.
That’s why you haven’t found him yet. Who is this guy? Why are you looking for
him?”
    “An old acquaintance,” Colonel Hollister said. “Someone I
need to talk to.”
    “He has something you need? information? I can find him
for you.”
    “I thought you already had a client,” Colonel Hollister
said.
    “ The Enquirer ? They don’t care about finding this
guy.”
    “You’re just a kid.” He looked down at John.
    “And that’s a bad thing? I can go places you can’t, talk
to people you can’t.”
    “And I imagine this will cost me?”
    “Right now,” John said, thinking about how Rooftop would
negotiate with someone who had handcuffed and punched him, “my client’s paying
me two thousand dollars a day.”
    “Two thousand dollars a day?” Colonel Hollister said,
startled by the expense.
    “Take the cuffs off and we can negotiate.”
    Colonel Hollister nodded. The sergeant uncuffed John. The handcuffs had cut off the circulation to John’s wrists and left them
white with red and raw rings around them. John rubbed his wrists and fresh
blood flooded them, waking them. He flexed his fingers.
    “My fee,” John said, “fifteen hundred a day, plus
expenses.”
    “One thousand,” Colonel Hollister countered.
    “And my