The Franklin Incident (Philly-Punk) Read online

  They left the college neighborhoods and headed downtown, the old co-ops giving way to brownstones lining a park that had a big red barn. The Claremont Zoo. As they continued, the park changed into curving streets full of outdoor cafes, trendy shops, and men and women in stylish business clothes.

  The driver made a left, shot up a busy thoroughfare, and turned right onto Lincoln Avenue in the heart of the shopping district. Karen watched stores that she loved, a massive multi-storied mall, theaters, horse-drawn carriages, throngs of shoppers, and a castle-like building pass by her window.

  Originally from an Ohio farm town, Karen hadn’t set foot in a big city until college. Even though she now lived outside of Washington DC, she still couldn’t help but be awed by cities. It brought out the little girl in her. The excitement of it all.

  The sights and sounds that passed had her so enthralled that Karen didn’t even notice the cab that pulled up next to her until the passenger was waving at her. She looked at the man: in his thirties, sporting bleached blonde hair and a jagged scar over his left eye. He smiled at Karen. That smile... Images suddenly flooded her: the same man with the same smile dressed in Agency-issued sweats that said TRAINER. Oh my God! “Charlie?”

  He grinned at her.

  And pulled out a pistol, swiveling it around at her.

  “GUN!” Karen yelled as she threw herself down on the backseat, expecting to hear the roar of gunfire and feel the rain of shattered glass falling down on her.

  But there was nothing.

  No gunfire.

  No shattering glass.

  Nothing except for the driver yelling as someone cut him off.

  Karen, her own pistol pulled, slowly peered over the door. Charlie Grossman wasn’t there. Neither was the cab. Instead, an older woman drove a green Lexus.

  Karen grabbed her cell phone and dialed her husband. Of course, there was no answer so she decided to dial another. When the assistant picked up, Karen said, “Director Collins, please. Tell him it’s Agent Webster.”

  “Bruce!” Director Collins yelled into the phone as he came on. “What’s the upda—“

  “No. The other Agent Webster.”

  “Sorry, Karen. Is everything okay?”

  “Does the local field office know we’re here?”

  The cabbie turned left off Lincoln Avenue and onto a street completely swallowed in the shadow of the high rises above it. It was as if evening had suddenly come for this part of the city, muting all the colors and eerily quieting all of the sounds.

  “Good lord, no.” Collins replied. “Why?”

  “Because I swear I just saw an Agent that trained me in Basic.”

  “Who?”

  “Charles Grossman.”

  Director Collins was suddenly silent. For a moment, Karen thought that perhaps their connection had been cut. "Sir?"

  He took a breath. “Agent Webster, are you positive it was Grossman?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Agent Grossman reportedly died two years ago.”

  “What the hell does 'reportedly' mean?”

  “It’s classified.”

  “Director Collins, what the hell is go—"

  “Agent Webster, I know that your husband and I haven’t kept you in the loop about much. We did that for your own safety since you weren’t field-rated yet. But I need you to be on top of your game right now.”

  The cab passed a delivery truck and the hotel appeared to her right. Bruce had a safe house inside– one of twelve throughout Claremont. Karen could instantly see why such a place would appeal to Bruce. It was definitely old, built at least in the last century. Bruce had a thing for Claremont’s history. The first five stories were made of tan blocks with detailed designs of peacocks sculpted into them.

  “Director Collins, I always bring my 'A game'.”

  She hung up.

  A uniformed man crossed under a large metal awning of hundreds of light bulbs to open her door. “Welcome to The Claremont Hotel.” Karen paid the driver, stepped out of the cab, and retrieved her luggage from the trunk. The cab pulled away as she walked into the lobby.

  And all thoughts of undead Agents quickly disappeared.

  The lobby was carpeted with a football field of repeating ornate designs and vibrant colors. The pure white marble walls that lined the lobby were decorated with lavish candelabras, bathing the cathedral of a room in yellow light and illuminating a ceiling that stole the show. It was completely covered in lovingly-rendered frescos of Greek mythology scenes. The colors were amazing: lush green of the pastoral scenes, deep blue of the seas, and the soft pink of the gods and goddesses depicted. Surrounding the frescos were gilded patterns and painted bas relieves. It all took Karen’s breath away as she slowly walked across the lobby.

  She instantly knew then why Bruce had chosen this safe house for their stay: the lobby. He’d chosen it for her.

  I love my husband.

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